Why can't I just take an army of summons and drown them in bodies?
by Gensh
Summary: The Chosen Undead has saved the world, defeated great evils, and most importantly, lost his virginity, but when all timelines begin to converge, it'll take everyone to keep some jerkoff Lords of Cinder from flushing it all down the toilet. Part of the Take the Ring metaplot.
1. Sister, Sister

The abomination found herself once more in a cold and lonely world. The view ahead was a vast field of coal-black sky, shining cobalt under the light of an enormous crescent moon. Though snow blanketed the ground far below, this was not the condemned world of Ariamis. Instead of a ruined fortress, beyond lay a ruined town. It didn't look the part, certainly, with its beautiful windows gleaming in the moonlight and its streets illuminated by lamps.

Yet the crossbreed had the eyes of a Raven and plucked at the strings of life itself. All that lay below was twisted and defiled. Her blood ran cold, and she gripped her vorpal scythe until her knuckles were whiter than the virgin snow which hid such monstrosity. It was not the forsaken city below that drove her to such fear. The scales prickled on the back of her neck, but she dared not turn around for fear of what she might see above.

So overwhelmed by this unfathomable presence, she nearly failed to notice as a smaller life approached her from behind. The slow patter of bare feet sounded subtly, and in the stillness of the night, shallow breathing could be heard. She forced herself to crook her head for a look. What she saw from the corner of her eye was impossible.

"Name thyself, stranger," said the warm, entreating voice.

The world's only half-dragon inhaled sharply. The younger woman behind her wore a gossamer veil which did nothing to conceal her features. Plainly put, they were her own father's. White scales flecked the girl's cheekbones, and curling tendrils trailed from her neck, half-hidden amongst blond tresses. A quick glance to the ground revealed a split tail with three ends.

"W-who art thou?" the elder monster stammered, her unsure speech contrasting with her strong features. "I am called Priscilla. My father was Seath, Duke of Anor Londo. Couldst thou be another child of his? I had thought myself alone."

The younger girl looked up in awe. Clearly, her heritage was divine, and she was a head taller than the average demigod, to say nothing of the human pygmies. Yet the mistress of Lifehunt was bolstered by the enormous power of her heritage, born to an ancient dragon and the most powerful goddess to ever live. This girl's head rose only to the level of Priscilla's bust.

"I am Yorshka, Captain of the Darkmoon Knights. I do not know who I was before I met my brother, but I dearly hope any family I might have had were as lovely as thee. I have never seen another like us. Thy father, who I resemble – what is he like?"

Priscilla's eyes went wide at the mention of that forbidden Covenant, and her expression hardened when her father was mentioned.

"Thou art better not knowing if thou hast yet to meet him. He would surely harmeth thee in trying to learn about thine appearance. He was Duke for aiding in the Lord's rise; his nobility was only ever a rank."

"Oh," Yorshka said, at a loss for words. "I'm sorry for asking."

"Thou couldst not have known," Priscilla said softly.

She'd responded curtly out of reflexive ire toward her father, but the frail young girl so much like herself seemed to take it harshly. She stopped leaning on her scythe and patted Yorshka's head.

"I too have a dear brother whom I met late in life. We share our mother, though we do not like to think much of her. We are not much alike in appearance. Ist thine own brother like thyself?"

"Not at all. He found me, and told me that he would be my brother and named me."

At first, Yorshka seemed happy to speak of her brother, but then her voice dropped.

"My position as Captain was once his. He was stricken by illness, and leadership of the Knights fell to me. Then, Sulyvahn wrongfully proclaimed himself Pontiff and took me prisoner. Oh, where could my dear brother be…"

"Thou art prisoner here?" Priscilla said slowly, feeling lightheaded.

Another seeming half-dragon imprisoned in a tower above a snowy waste was beyond belief. A "recurrence," she remembered. "The Eternal Return."

"This tower," Yorshka said thoughtfully, "this prison, stands tall and solitary – the contraption bridging its lower reaches long unmoving. That bonfire had long remained cold until thine arrival. I suppose now it will be forever so."

Priscilla glanced down at her bare feet. The coiled sword rested on the icy stone, the bone ash of the bonfire scattered across the balcony. There was no way back, then. She stepped past the girl to observe her surroundings. As she put the tower behind her, she stuttered, gasping.

She might have noticed it earlier and unconsciously suppressed it, but she knew the grand buildings before her. She had lived here as a child, before her exile, before she knew her mother's loathing. Ahead lay Anor Londo, City of Sunlight, frozen and dark. It was in the heart of the Great Lord's own keep that the wicked presence lurked.

"How?" she eked out, her voice cracking.

"I beg thy pardon," Yorshka said, walking around. "Thou must have come from afar to see the grossly incandescent city of the First Lord. I am afraid it has been dark since my brother fell ill. Oh, I hope he won't mind me speaking of this to one who is not of our company, but I feel I can trust thee. My brother is the Dark Sun Gwyndolin, shadow to Father Gwyn and Sister Gwynevere."

Priscilla began to take short, shallow breaths.

"Truly, thou art my sister, even if we do not share a father." she said between breaths. "Gwyndolin is my brother as well."

"Oh!"

The implication slowly sank in.

"A sister!"

Facing good news for the first time since before the Pontiff's rise, she threw out her arms and dove to hug Priscilla. This snapped the elder girl back to reality. Quickly, before they could touch, she vanished, gliding away with a rush of air. Shocked, Yorshka stopped in place, looking about.

"Sister, I pray I have not offended thee!"

Priscilla appeared just out of reach.

"No," she said, more or less back to normal, "it is I who must ask forgiveness. That is an old habit of mine."

She fell to one knee and extended her arms.

"Thou mayst hug me anytime thou wishest."

Yorshka grinned from ear to ear and jumped into the elder girl's fluffy coat of white fur. Being what she was, she didn't mind the cold even in her silken gown. Still, the warmth of the smothering sleeves and the newfound family behind them caused her pale skin to gain a bit of color.

"Art thou ready to leave this prison, forever?" Priscilla whispered.

"Where shall I go, Sister?" Yorshka asked, excited but hesitant.

"First, we will go find our brother and do away with this wicked Pontiff," she said, glancing up at Gwyn's keep. "Then, we will bring back the sun – the real sun – to Anor Londo."

Yorshka gasped in excitement.

"Sister, how will we do all of this? I have been long trapped here. This tower stands apart, and I cannot operate the bridge mechanism from this side."

Priscilla smiled and rose to tower over her.

"As your elder sister, I will pass on to you words once toldeth to myself by one very dear to me. To begin this journey – to begin any journey, we must take the first step."

She extended her hand but took a step backward.

"Art thou ready to begin thine own journey?"

Yorshka took a deep breath, then nodded twice.

"I am ready, sister! I cannot keep waiting for Brother while the Darkmoon Knights are memberless."

She took Priscilla's hand, and the larger girl pulled her forward, hefting her onto her back.

"Ensurest thou dost not let go."

With that, Priscilla hurdled over the railing. As Yorshka screamed in terror, she dug her powerful fingers into the stone of the wall below. With the grip strength of dragon and raven, she kicked and clawed out her own footholds as she descended the sheer stone prison. With every other move, her wicked scythe stabbed a hole in the wall as if the structure were made of water. As she climbed onto the roof of the building below, she glanced around. There was no obvious way back up to the rest of the City of Sunlight, save passing through the lower town.

Scowling, she descended to the building's courtyard and put her sister down there. As she had seen from above, the streets were utterly abandoned, only the whistle of the wind for sound.

"That was amazing, sister!" Yorshka shouted.

"Shh," Priscilla hissed quickly, putting a long finger to her lips. "We do not wish for thine enemies to discover us yet. Havest thou a weapon?"

"I have a powerful chime Brother gave me."

Priscilla shook her head.

"That must doeth for now. Miracles can healeth thee, but a weapon could preventeth the injury. When we see combat, thou must stay clear of danger and support me, understand?"

"Of course, Sister," the younger girl said seriously.

If nothing else, Yorshka was well-acquainted with her own weakness. Even if she had a weapon, she likely would not have been able to wield it effectively. Despite her size, she was a frail girl, unsuited for direct combat. Priscilla led the way toward the enormous cathedral that overlooked the defiled town. They kept to the shadows, following the line of buildings and stopping to wait as patrols passed.

Soon, a gate barred their path, but there was no physical barrier that could stand against the infinite sharpness of her wicked scythe. She quickly swung it not only through the brass bars but through the stone wall as well, cleaving through a pair of invisible hollows on the other side. Such tricks wouldn't work on one who could perform them as well. Beyond the gate and up the stairs, they waited for a skull-faced knight to pass and hurried through the fog and into the building.

The interior of the cathedral was beautiful, though its color had dulled with time. Where they hadn't cracked from cold, the stone tiles shone so bright as to reflect the majesty above. Grand chandeliers crossed the room, which was illuminated by moonlight streaming through stained glass that covered much of the upper wall. At the far side stood four enormous statues of an androgynous robed deity.

"Brother…" Yorshka murmured.

Priscilla didn't quite recognize them. Setting aside that even more of the deity's face was obscured than she was used to, this Gwyndolin was many years older than her own. Still, the Dark Sun's royal scepter and unique sorcery catalyst was unmistakable. She grit her teeth. A man stood alone in the center of the room.

He held a greatsword in his right hand and a longsword in the left. He was clad in ragged white robes that had once flowed and shone, and atop his head was not a papal crown but a regal one.

"Oh, it is only you, young Lady Yorshka," he said with a voice like rich flame, "I am beside myself to see you have made a friend. But my Lady, it is not safe outside your tower. Even now, I watch in pain as our brave Outrider Knights fight for their lives against foes who would destroy our very way of life. It will be long afore it is safe for you to walk even the guarded streets of our fair city. Come, I will take you back now. I shall personally see to it that your friend is bestowed with Irithyll's utmost hospitality."

"I am no fool, Sulyvahn," Yorshka said spitefully. "I know what thy hospitality means. Thou art no Pontiff! If my brother were here, he would not stand for the indignities thou hast piled upon our people!"

The Pontiff waited patiently for her to finish, resting his swords on the tiles but not putting them away.

"Oh, I am quite aware of the Dark Sun's position on these matters, young Lady Yorshka. We spoke at length on them. In the end, I was made Pontiff. What more do you wish of me? What can I say to convince you that all which has come to pass is the will of the gods?"

"Set me free. Release the slaves that were once free men before they were needed to fuel your wars with the outside. Tell me where my brother is. Then perhaps I will find it in myself to give thee the benefit of the doubt. If thou can do none of these, then let my sister pass so that she can search for Brother in my place."

"Oh my," the Pontiff rumbled, "a sister, you say?"

He drew closer but also subtly moved his swords to the ready. His expression couldn't be seen through his faceless shroud, crossed with brass like the roots of a tree. Still, he clearly hadn't expected this. He wasn't angry or frightened, but a dangerous sort of interested.

"Yes, I see the resemblance now. Not so much in the face, but the heritage, certainly. I am Sulyvahn, Lunar Pontiff. May I have the pleasure of your name, dear Lady?"

"I am Priscilla, daughter of Duke Seath and Witch Velka, half-sister of the Dark Sun. In my name, my brother's, and my the Great Lord's, I demand thou freest thy prisoners. I am not so naive to think it can be done immediately, but if thou carest in the slightest about the gods' will, thou willt heed my command. If the city hurteth, speakest only what it needeth, and I shall see it delivered. If thou seekest only to rule, then I shall depose thee on my brother's behalf."

The Pontiff was unfazed.

"My Lady Priscilla, it pains me that our first meeting must be under such circumstances. Surely, you will allow me a chance to explain myself, as I did to the Dark Sun. I am wholly certain the two of us will come to the same understanding he and I did. If it is for the young Lady Yorshka that you worry, fret not. I shall arrange for the tower to accommodate the two of you. Say only the word, my Ladies, and it shall be done."

"Forgivest me," Priscilla said coldly. "I listened to the gods speak when I was very young and heard too the words of the Serpent. Thou speakest not half as many truths as that creature. Thy tongue is forked as my father's tail."

"Dear me," Sulyvahn sighed. "Here I had hoped for the blessing of a free meal. It seems that I shall have to work for this one as well. Let us hope you put up a better fight than your dear brother."

Without incantations or gestures, he set his greatsword aflame and his longsword alight with magic. He held the larger sword forward as a cautious defense while the smaller was drawn back to lunge if the opportunity presented itself. Priscilla brandished her long scythe in one hand. As commanded, Yorshka stepped back from the violence to come but readied her sacred chime. The Pontiff opened with a room-crossing sweep with his flaming blade.

Such an obvious attack was no trouble at all. Priscilla simply vanished and slashed at him from behind. He shrieked as blood was torn from the wound as if by a vacuum, devoured by the power of Lifehunt that flowed through the scythe. Yet a moment later, he was laughing heartily.

"I see! You are more than you appear! Another Devourer! I am a fool! Surely a power as rapacious as Flame would have a Devourer all its own! In that case…"

Priscilla was quick and could vanish from sight. The Pontiff, however, could seemingly vanish _because_ he was quick. Before she had time to react, he had Yorshka at his mercy. He still wielded his flaming sword defensively, but now he had the younger deity pinned to his chest, the sorcerous blade rising against her neck.

"Sister!"

"My dear Lady Priscilla, you must forgive me. I would never resort to such disgraceful tactics… ordinarily. You, dear Lady, are no ordinary goddess. I am loath to admit it, but I would hardly stand a chance against you otherwise. You see, it is my duty to 'tenderize' Lord Aldrich's meals."

He paused.

"No, I don't like this at all. Let us change the rules of this game, shall we? You play the hare, and I'll play the beast. It is your duty to protect the sweet young little hare from my predations, even at great personal cost. Understand?"

He chuckled and shoved Yorshka toward Priscilla. The older girl dropped her fighting stance to catch her, but the gleaming blue blade dug into her side as she did so.

"Yes, this is much more sporting," Sulyvahn chuckled, streaking away as a blur of red and blue light.

He lunged toward the pair again, leading with a wide sweep of his larger sword. Priscilla batted it away with her scythe. Though the hungry energy that cloaked her body licked at the flame, it was at once neverending and overbearing, scorching the fur of her coat. He followed up with a thrust of the smaller sword. Instead of dodging and putting Yorshka at risk again, Priscilla caught the blade in her powerful grip.

She bled the thick blood of gods for only a moment before her own power lapped it up, and the energy of the sword sparked and resisted. With the Pontiff inside her scythe's range, another attack would be more suitable. She took a deep breath, and unleashed a deadly crystal spray. While her father's breath carried the power of the stone dragons and could petrify the living, her own dragon breath was aspected to the horrid power for which she was bred. The Pontiff shrieked as the glittering shards tore through his robes and flesh, devouring his blood from the inside.

He swung blindly with his greatsword and shook his longsword vigorously, digging deeper and deeper into the crossbreed's palm. Flinching, she let him go, and he quickly hopped out of the immediate danger.

"Sister, just a moment!"

Yorshka raised her chime with a golden light. It rang out with a pure tone, and a holy aura enveloped the two of them, healing Priscilla's hand.

"Thou hast my thanks, Yorshka."

"I only do as thou said, Sister."

Some distance away, Sulyvahn was bent over in agony. Darkness burst from his back like soot, and wings of gnarled, twisted roots sprouted from his back.

"Haaaah! Ha!" he panted and laughed, nearly choking. "You nearly made me lose it! A shame! That will be the last chance you had to kill me!"

He raised his magic sword to his face. After a moment, he began to shimmer and split. Another moment, and a hazy phantom of him appeared. Just as swiftly as it had manifested, it leapt into the air. The real Pontiff followed immediately after, and both dove at the crossbreed pair with their flaming swords.

Priscilla held herself and waited. The phantom broke against the power of Lifehunt that filled her presence, and at the last moment, she rolled out of the way of the real attack, taking Yorshka with her.

"Interesting!" the Pontiff laughed madly. "If that approach won't work, then I shan't waste your time with any anymore!"

He kicked backward, gliding through the air. At a safe distance, he thrust his magic sword forward. It flashed and unleashed an off-color soul spear. Priscilla deflected it with the blade of her scythe, but the weapon simply wasn't meant for defense. Though some of the energy reflected, much of it blasted straight through to her.

Yorshka healed her again without missing a beat, but the elder deity could almost taste the rogue Pontiff's unseen smug grin as he prepared to fire again. Prsicilla was trapped, and he knew it. Even in his more powerful state, she could easily kill him alone. The question was whether she could kill him before he severely injured Yorshka. Undead could afford to take risks; the two very much alive demigods lacked that luxury.

She had been too headstrong. It would have not been so difficult to slaughter the monsters of the city like they deserved and hidden Yorshka somewhere safe. She would certainly get an earful from Sir Ornstein when he heard of this. If she survived, anyway. The Pontiff shot again, then dared step closer, sweeping the sword sidelong to unleash a short-reached crescent of power.

Priscilla snarled at him but didn't move, shielding Yorshka with her body even as the younger deity healed her.

"Thou won't be able to keep this up," the elder whispered. "Even if we moved forward, I am not sure we could corner him with wings like so. How well canst thou run?"

"Do not worry, Sister. I will take care of myself. It is long overdue."

Priscilla nodded.

"Be careful."

She rushed the Pontiff without warning, enduring the next blast to cover Yorshka's escape. Her scythe cut a swath through the priest's torso, but he quickly retreated.

"A changing situation calls for changing tactics," he taunted as he raised his magic sword again.

As his phantom began to flicker into existence once more, Priscilla rushed him to shatter the illusion. Only, instead of hiding behind the copy as he had before, it broke away backward. While he occupied the true threat, it could easily deal with the fleeing Yorshka. It hammered its flaming sword down with enough force to shatter the stone tiles. Some of the errant shrapnel slashed the unprepared deity's skin as she scampered over the iron pews in search of cover.

With no choice, Priscilla doubled back. The real Pontiff lunged after her, trying to swipe her legs out from under her with his larger sword. He dashed the blade into the cathedral wall to swing himself forward, stabbing her in the lower back with his magic sword. She grunted and tore herself free of the blade, sliding through the benches and kicking them at the Pontiff behind her. Close enough at last, the phantom priest evaporated once more, but she was hard-pressed to block an overhead sweep with both blades.

They ground against her indestructible scythe, but her strength was waning. Though initially human, the Pontiff had taken on a scale to match her own. He had momentum driving him forward and the weight of his own weapons. Priscilla was never one for direct confrontations, and with that last injury, it took all the more effort to stand under such force. With one final exertion, she threw the swords aside and rolled over in the air, lashing him back with her tail.

She tried to follow up with her scythe, but the Pontiff had learned all he needed by now. The pair was cornered. They couldn't try splitting up again, but without any sort of ranged weapon or spell, that also meant they couldn't attack.

"Come now," he said gently. "I have no desire to continue this futile struggle. Surrender yourselves, and I will spare your suffering. Lady Priscilla, you have a unique gift. Help me.

Lord Aldrich sees that an Age of Deep Water will replace that of Fire. I see no reason why a new power should snuff out the old, save poetic justice. Together, we could enter the new Age without losing all of this – everything the gods have built."

"What dideth our brother tell thee?" she spat.

"Well… He told me quite a lot of things. But he's in no position to speak now."

"What did thou do to Brother!" Yorshka demanded, peeking out from under Priscilla.

"Oh, it's not what I did. Lord Aldrich was quite famished from the journey here. I merely… introduced the two of them."

"Thou art a beast!" she spat.

Priscilla only looked grim and used the extra time to try and think of another plan.

"Yes, that was the role, wasn't it? And it would seem our hunt is come to an end. The vicious beast has cornered the two little snow hares. Now, only to devour them."

"Yorshka, stayest thee close," Priscilla whispered.

A soul spear came, and the pair ducked and rolled away. A crescent slash followed, and they dove to the floor beneath it. Now, they had reached the fog wall again, and there was nowhere for them to dodge. Something shattered. A moment passed as the Pontiff searched cautiously for the source of the noise.

Bits of colored glass rained down, shredding Sulyvahn and Priscilla's flesh and robes, Yorshka safely tucked away under Priscilla's larger body. The elder crossbreed quickly regained her feet and swung her scythe up it sparked against the Pontiff's magic sword as he deflected the clumsy blow. He didn't hear the jingle of the chandelier. The demigoddess stomped into it, throwing the Pontiff back. He didn't hear leather on stone.

He coasted through the air comfortably, utterly confident in his ranged advantage. He didn't see the weapon drawn. Without warning, a blade appeared in front of him. The Pontiff screamed again as syrupy blood began to stain his white robes. He clutched at his heart as its contents rushed out in spurts.

He screamed again as the blade jerked out the way it had come. He whirled about to see the cause of the injury. A rush of wind, and the perpetrator was gone. He was fast, but not fast enough. He turned around again, paired swords ready.

He found another pair ready to face him. The Pontiff had been human at first, but towered over his own pygmy kind with the strength of his soul. Weapons that would break a mortal's arms to lift, he could whip about with ease. Yet here was a normal human, with a normal saber and dagger pair, who had inflicted such a grave injury upon him.

"This is absurd! Do you know who I am?"

"Pontiff Sulyvahn," she said with a slight, unfamiliar accent. "First, you discovered the secrets of the Profaned Flame. Then, you discovered the secrets of the Deep."

The people of the Boreal Valley were terribly pale. Like the deities of old, it is said – only the ones remaining were of defiled stock. So too, any human so terribly pale surely had bad blood.

"Oh, I know very well," the woman continued. "How the secrets beckon so sweetly."

The Pontiff slashed his flaming sword in an arc so as to clear the area around him. The woman in the leather tallcoat simply vanished. Her boots clicked on steel as she danced atop the burning blade to get a better shot. She fired her matchlock pistol into the mail on the Pontiff's neck, then slashed at the weakened chain. A jet of blood sprayed from the wound as he furiously swung the greatsword to unsettle her.

She simply flipped off, landing gracefully before disappearing. The Pontiff spun full circle with the greatsword, then hacked backward again as an impenetrable defense. Catching sight of the woman again, he twisted and smashed both swords down from overhead. She simply vanished again, appearing to one side and slashing both her blades across his side. He quickly contorted and jabbed his smaller blade forward, but she quickstepped to the other side and slashed at his already wounded stomach. Furious, he swung at her blindly as she kept backing off, growing closer to the door again.

"Are you ready, Lifehunter?"

As one particularly violent greatsword swing arced overhead, the woman in leather fired her pistol again, blasting the Pontiff in the face and throwing him off-balance. Priscilla stepped forward and swung her scythe underhanded. The wicked occult blade arced up through the wound it had left before and dug deeper, shredding his innards before bursting out the back. It tore upward, eventually ripping free at the shoulder. Either half of the Pontiff's body slumped over, blood spraying through the air before being absorbed by the scythe.

The moment passed, and the ancient sorcerer dispersed into souls. Priscilla breathed a sigh of relief.

"Yorshka, art thou-?"

"Sister, thou art the one who is injured!"

The Darkmoon Captain rang her chime again and again, until any possible internal wound was certainly healed.

Priscilla smiled faintly.

"Thou hast my thanks, Yorshka. Might I introduce thee to Maria? I had come with many companions, but we were separated somehow. Maria wath among them. Maria, this ist Yorshka, who this world's Gwyndolin adopted as sister."

"It is a pleasure to meet one of Sister's companions!" Yorshka said, curtsying and clearly quite excited for having a record amount of social interactions despite the near death experience.

"Likewise," Maria said, nodding politely. "You have not found any of the others, Lifehunter?"

Priscilla shook her head sadly.

"I met Yorshka immediately after arriving."

"We just missed each other. I began exploring immediately after arriving, but when I returned, I could smell your scent had passed by. I chased as quickly as I could and climbed to the windows for a better look."

"Thine intervention was timely. I shudder to think what wouldeth have happened had thou not arrived. Yet there is one strange detail remaining. How didst thou know about ourn foe?"

"Knowing one's foe is vital, Lifehunter. I learned everything the Prophet had to tell about this land before we arrived."

"The Prophet?" Yorshka chimed in.

"The Prophet of Slaanesh," Priscilla said. "He saved every one of us. We followed him here for that same purpose."

"I see," Yorshka said, still not really sure.

"How will we regroup?" Maria asked. "Have you given it any thought? There is something at the top of this city which we must hunt. I was hesitant to attempt this myself, but with you, I have more confidence."

Priscilla nodded.

"Whatever this presence ist, we must destroy it. We must also find Gwyndolin."

"I will help you as best I can," Yorshka added excitedly.

"Then we are agreed," Maria added, ending the discussion.

With that, the three abominations exited the far side of the cathedral in search of the greatest monster of all time.


	2. Actions have consequences

Senator Hillund pulled uncomfortably at the collar of his formal blue-and-gold tunic. His sharp blue eyes darted from one wall to another in search of ambush, though he knew there would be none. He felt naked without his armor, the bright colors of his suit clashing with the washed-out grays of what had been the Undead Asylum. Construction was underway, an army of hideous spider-things crawling over the worn keep, rebuilding it for another purpose. The workers were friendly enough if one had the courage to speak with them, their personalities made of fragmentary memories of their past lives as humans combined with a loyalty to their demonic mother.

The politician had spoken with several in the past, but now he had little time and so proceeded to the keep's interior. Through the gates to the grand hall and around the half-constructed floor he went, to the cliff overlooking the land of Lords. There were no crows there now, those remaining in Lordran driven off or put into sanctuaries. Instead were a fleet of silver-winged ornithopters forged in the likeness of the gods' guardian gargoyles. _Undead Station, direct service to Undead Parish_ , the sign said.

Hillund boarded one of them, sitting in a glass box beneath the wings, and it rose with a mechanical shriek. After several experimental wingstrokes, it wheeled about on four legs and sprinted up the hill before lunging into the open air. Though not as thrilling as feeling the rush of wind between the talons of a temperamental crow, the sight of Lordran rushing in from below was as breathtaking as always. After the brief flight, the artificial gargoyle landed on the Parish rooftop, settling to a stop on one of the empty roosts. The cabin door unlocked, and the senator stepped out into Lordran for the first time in months, admiring the new handrails to keep visitors from falling off the roof.

A commemorative bronze plaque was fastened to the wall of the belfry, detailing how the Chosen Undead and his three knightly companions triumphed over the first test to succeed the Lord of Sunlight. Hillund shook his head and descended into the chapel passing more plaques telling the story of the Prophet's first encounter with a Channeler of the mad Duke and a hollow knight of Berenike. There was another, of course, in memory of the anonymous fallen Fire Keeper. He took the elevator down to Firelink Shrine, whose total reconstruction had been completed recently.

"What are you doing here?" a voice rang out, followed by running footsteps. "We're not open yet! Come back later!"

A man in his late thirties with short-cropped black hair wheeled around the corner. He was wearing a uniform of sorts, a short black tunic with a short collar, emblazoned with the seals of the four Lords.

"Oh, it's you. It's been some time."

"Wilhelm! You shaved!"

"Oh, laugh it up," the former Crestfallen Warrior grumbled. "We've cleaned this mess of a place up. It's only fair that I did the same."

The buildings around the Shrine had all been rebuilt. No longer was it a ruined temple to the disgraced God of War; it was a formal gateway to Lordran. Statues of the four Lords in their prime towered over the main chapel, where inscriptions on the walls told the story of the land, from the war with the dragons to their final extinction in the Battle of Anor Londo. Only the details of what transpired within the Kiln were kept secret.

"We still get Chosen Undead, from time to time, you know," the former warrior said, leading Hillund outside. "Just the crazy ones. The ones that can't believe they're human again and soil themselves because Undead don't have to worry about bodily functions. Lucky me, the guards usually take care of them."

He thumbed to a Silver Knight statue. There were several of them throughout the Shrine. These were newer and more articulate than the old ones. Even if they weren't half the strength of a true Knight, no mere human could handle a group of them. Hillund turned his attention to the main shrine.

It had been preserved in its dilapidated state, to show travelers what the countless Chosen Undead thought of as home. A petite blonde woman was standing over the bonfire.

"Anastacia! How are you!"

"Oscar!"

Oscar, Senator of Astora held out his arms to embrace the Fire Keeper.

"I'm just anxious for everything to start," she said, hugging him and motioning to everything around them. We're going to get our first visitors soon. I just hope they like it."

"They'll love it. Don't worry. Just like we did, they'll be happy to have a sane place to rest after exploring the rest of Lordran."

The Keeper nodded, blushing.

"It's amazing… to know that this little Shrine of mine is the gateway to such wonderful places. Ah, but I won't keep you. I know there isn't much time left."

Oscar nodded. Anastacia reached out to the bonfire, and it began to smoke. The cloud grew wide, forming a ring about the coiled sword. Across the gray, images of a great stone city could be seen.

"We'll spend a day catching up on my way back," he said, smiling.

With that, he entered the portal and stepped out into the red-lit cavern. The bonfire on the other side stood at the end of a massive stone table seated above a sea of lava. Countless trees with leaves of flame grew from the cavern walls, their roots and trunks connecting platforms of volcanic stone suspended above the gurgling magma. A massive archway stood before him, guarded by towering knights in black iron armor. Recognizing the foreign dignitary, they saluted and let him pass.

Past the guardhouse, he stepped onto a circular platform that rose freely through the air, propelled by the blood-tinged power of Chaos. From here, he could see the grand industry of Chaos, factory-cathedrals belched steam as the eternally-burning lava was harnessed to drive the works of the God of Invention. Where mere engines would not suffice, the demonic power of blood and fire was tapped directly, platforms floating by on halos of burning runes. Oscar shook his head. A renewed Flame meant renewed ambition, but he could have never imagined this.

The elevator stopped at last at the bottom of a hanging tower that overlooked the entire chasm, mined deeper than it had ever been. There was no bonfire here, to prevent sudden intrusion into the royal chambers. The twin banners of Izalith and the Chosen Undead hung overhead, a golden tree on a field of ebony and the mixed male-female sign of the hermaphrodite god Slaanesh in tyrian on black. There was only one throne, sized for a Lord and carved from a fallen archtree. The Chaos Queen and her consort were all too often inseparable, so there had been no need for independent thrones and considerations as for which ought to be more prominent between blood ruler and hero.

Only, the throne was empty. An iron ladder hung from a trapdoor in the ceiling, so Oscar sighed and began the climb to the inner chambers. There were countless rooms in the inverted tower, but the screams of rage were all he needed to find his way. The demon queen had been the field marshal of the Witch-ruled land, and she had ensured that her own war room was suitably provisioned. From recently-commissioned maps of the outside world to shells which magically transmitted orders to units afield, it was far beyond the cold, trophy-filled refuge of the last King of Astora.

Of course, it wouldn't last long if the queen's rampage wasn't stopped. A stone table shattered against a wall, papers flying everywhere.

"I don't care if you have to shave his beard to do it, have Straid get visuals back _now_!"

" _Dearie, calm down_ ," an otherworldly but motherly voice cooed. " _Being so angry isn't good for the-_ "

"This is as calm as I can get when we suddenly lose contact with _everyone_!"

"Please, listen to Yharnam-!"

"Be quiet if you're not helping, Astraea!"

"Don't talk to her like-!"

"I will throw you out the damned window, Garl!"

"Maybe we should…" mumbled the Silent Oracle, who quickly decreased in volume until no one could hear her.

"Why do I have so many attendants?! Everyone but Yharnam, out! Don't think I don't mean you too, Black!"

The young woman idling atop a desk looked like she would have rolled her eyes if they weren't covered with wax. Still, she and the others obediently filed out the door.

"I see my timing is excellent," Oscar said dryly as he squeezed past the others.

"Oh, thank goodness," Quelaag sighed. "Someone with a brain."

Her power at last consolidated, the demon queen was ravishing: sharp, noble features on pale skin accentuated by exotic cosmetics; a toned body with pert breasts and flaring hips; and beautiful deep brown locks that cascaded down her back. Her crown was a tall headpiece with eight jagged rays, equally likely to be a representation of the sun, a spider, or the Arms of Chaos. She wore tall, crooked heels on her restored feet, and her body was loosely draped with newly-knit gold-hemmed black silk. Over her shoulders was a shawl of Chaos roots bound by spider silk, which occasionally spasmed and prickled. Only, one thing was off.

While in one hand, she held a regal scepter carved from an archtree, the other rested gingerly on a belly large enough to make a knight of Catarina jealous. It was a strange sight to say the least, to see the trim, acrobatic demoness moving ponderously under the weight of twins. Behind the demon queen stood another queen, now a permanent guest in the former's court. She wore a glowing white formal gown and held a well-covered infant in her arms. Oscar tried not to stare as whatever was beneath the blanket writhed in inhuman motions.

"What was that about losing everyone?" he said, cutting to the issue at hand.

"Thank you," Quelaag sighed, "for not blathering on about my blood pressure or some nonsense. As it happens, we've been using too much power to tunnel between worlds. All of us traveling to Eleum Loyce, where Chaos is strong, is one thing. Likewise, sending you and Lex to the oh-so-stable Nexus or he and I through the Deep to the Hunter's Dream. Sending a large group to some graveyard bonfire without a Keeper at the end of the final Age of Fire?

Well, that overloaded it. Burnt it out completely. Everyone was scattered among the other bonfires in Lothric, and those burnt out as well. It should be a minor setback at most. That would be with reasonable people, with whom we clearly aren't dealing. How long does it take to find another bonfire, you incompetents?!"

Having already thrown the table, she settled for stomping her foot with enough force to pierce the stone floor.

" _Careful, dearie. You wouldn't want to induce labor while the father is abroad. As much as Mergo would love to meet his cousins sooner. Isn't that right, Mergo?_ "

The Pthumerian poked a ghastly finger at the bundle in her arms. The baby giggled, but something grotesque slithered beneath the blanket.

"Yes, yes," Quelaag groaned. "Well, actually… If I did, then I could go myself, and-"

" _No, you won't_."

The younger queen sighed and drummed her fingers across her taut skin, eliciting a visible kick from one of the demons within."

"You're right. I wouldn't dare leave these two alone so quickly. I'd come back and find the whole city burned to the ground by mistake if they're anything like their father and myself."

She quickly got the conversation back on track, turning to face Oscar again.

"We can try to force a connection to another bonfire in order to spy into Lothric, but we need that Frampt-sounding, unshaven mess of a sorcerer to find one. I'm half-ready to replace the easily-distracted fool."

She sighed for the umpteenth, rubbing her belly.

"Honestly, this is all Lex's fault. He could have waited a few more weeks."

" _Everyone is just so busy_ ," Yharnam hummed. " _It couldn't be helped that this was the only time that we could get together. Look at it this way – it's the first test of your ability to command from the capital instead of from the front lines. You will have to grow used to it someday. Better sooner than later._ "

"True that may be, but it is driving me mad. Oscar! I cannot imagine the idle life of a politician suiting you. You are as swift to act as you are patient. Tell me how you deal with it."

"Well, it's-"

"Sister, we-" Quelaav began, fluttering into the room. "Oh, I'm sorry, Oscar, I-"

"Oscar can wait! What news do you have for me?"

"Someone has reached out to us from Lothric's Firelink Shrine."

"Finally! Wait. Why did you say 'someone'? It wasn't one of us?"

"Sister, you're going to want to see this."

The demon Fire Keeper projected a wall of golden flame into the empty space where the table had been. Through the bonfire-linked haze, the darkened pit the people of Lothric called Firelink wavered into view.

"You're kidding," Quelaag groaned, knitting her brows. "Please tell me this is a joke. It's Artorias, right? Please. Oh, Mother, give me strength. I thought it was bad with just Lex."

Mergo giggled and reached for the figures pictured in the flame.


	3. All those who chose to oppose his shield

The fall of the great defender Artorias marked the beginning of the decline for shielded combat. While the simple defense would remain a mainstay for lesser warriors for ages to come, great Kings and heroes would go on to find them lacking. To artfully dodge and riposte was the mark of the truly skilled. With that mindset, shields and even armor itself became mere hindrances weighing down the warrior. Arrogant though it may have been, it had its root in truth.

The Dark was ever encroaching upon the world of Fire, and the beasts which dwelt within it were simply too powerful to confront directly, such as a shield demanded. Like the Abysswalker before them, their bodies would shattered by the force. Soon, only the stoic Havel knights would stubbornly retain their shields. Even the legendary shield-bearing rebel Raime would give up the shield bearing his legacy in favor of a sword which could be used as such. This sword would outlive him, yet the use of it as a makeshift shield would be forgotten.

It comes as no surprise, then, that Undead Legion would disdain the use of shields despite their heritage. As those who stood at the forefront of the Abyss, they couldn't afford the risk. It is obvious that the shield-using Hawkwood would be a failure among their number, who would not Link the Flame and would escape the destruction of their order. Only, the Old Wolf of Farron did remember the old ways. And it could not have been more glad for it as that hand ruffled the fur behind its ears one last time before it passed.

A mournful howl echoed through the poisonous swamp, catching the ears of the ghru throughout and the few Darkwraiths skulking here and there. Three flames were lit, and the path to the Keep was open. The Knight descended from the watchtower and continued through the unsealed gate. Through the swords of the fallen, he passed, sprinting up the ledge to fall upon the crow demons with savage fury. He continued up the hill until he came upon a pair of Darkwraiths effortlessly slaughtering the ghru which guarded the Keep's gate.

The Knight snarled and charged so quickly that they could not react before their skull masks rolled from their shoulders. The ghru bristled momentarily, then stepped back. The injured forgot about their wounds, and all raised their weapons in salute. The Knight nodded, then continued onward. He thrust the gate open and pressed through the fog wall.

The room beyond was dark, lit by candle and by cracks in the roof. Weeds grew from the broken stone floor, and vines crept along the walls. All around were strewn corpses of men in leather armor with conical helms, lying in pools of their own blood. The last two of their number fought exhaustedly at the end of the chamber, but as the Knight entered, the fatal blow was struck.

The last ran his sword through his companion, then allowed the body slip to the ground. The final Abyss Watcher turned slowly, looking at the Knight curiously. He raised sword and crooked knife in salute, then he too paused, sniffing at that long-forgotten scent.

"Fools!" the Knight howled. "What menace haven you wrought in my name? How many lives destroyen? None of you haven known the true terror of the Abyss, for it beeth this very madness!"

The Master of the Wolf Blood stood before the fallen Legion who had partaken of the tainted Wolf's Blood and of his own shattered soul. The mad hollow which was the last and greatest of their number winced instinctively. The Wolf Knight himself stood gleaming in the low light, his armor the shining silver of a godly knight. His royal blue cloak hung proudly, a covering to ward against the cold of night rather than a symbol of vanity like the blood-colored capes of the Legion. He had not yet drawn his weapon, but that hardly stopped the hollow, now driven by fear and the welling Abyss within him.

He dove low to the ground and lunged forward, pushing off with his knife and sweeping his immense sword along the stone. Artorias' left arm throbbed faintly. He hurdled over the charge and smashed the Legionnaire's exposed back into the floor. His false arm of holy silver split open to reveal a beating heart of Chaos Flame. As the metal claws dug into the Undead's back, the hungry Flame supped on the Dark which had long corrupted the Legion.

The arm steamed and sealed shut again just as the next Abyss Watcher rose from death with the chiming of the Bell. This one had burning red eyes like the Beast itself. Artorias growled as he looked at the corpses all about him. The new one lunged at him with an overhead strike, but he simply sidestepped, ducking around to catch this one from behind as well. His hungry arm sank deep into the Watcher's back and drained the festering Dark from him before casting the empty body aside.

Drawn by the presence of the Wolf Blood Master, the fallen Legionnaires didn't ponderously join the fray as they had so many times before. Instead, they rose en masse with each peal of the Bell, each wielding a replica of the Wolf Knight's own blade. Three rushed forward, swinging their swords in sync, a single blade bearing enough force to cleave a mortal in half. At last, Artorias' arm went to his back. Only, he didn't draw his legendary greatsword.

His once-shattered greatshield swung around, reforged by smiths dead, demon, and divine, and bearing the blessing of the Dark Sun. Not only did he catch the falling blades, but he thrust them back. As he did so, their fellows cut them down in a frenzy to strike at their mythical master. The blades came from all different directions, a situation which should have rendered even such a large shield useless. In spite of the danger, Artorias fended off half the attacks with his shield while whipping his cloak around with his free hand to entangle the other blades.

His elbow whipped back to bash one of the Undead Legionnaires in its masked face. His shield surged forward to knock more to the ground with the force of a lunging wolf. He stomped on another's ankle and bashed his helmet against another. His shield-arm crashed down again, driving yet another to the ground. Off-balance, he should have been vulnerable, but he continued, like a wolf stalking its prey, twisting into a flipping kick.

His winding boot took out another. As he landed, he wheeled his shield around to clear those standing in front of him. Passing the shield to his other hand, he lashed out with his silver arm. The devil device opened like the maw of a Chaos Eater, draining the Dark from the stunned Watcher. Those he drained lacked the souls to get up, and as for the others, the power to rise from the dead meant nothing against a foe who could beat and break them without killing.

By now, all the Legion had risen, though they barely fit within the confined space. Within moments, their numbers halved and halved again as they mindlessly cut through one another to reach their target. Only, the fallen rose to fight once more, until the whole of the Keep was awash in the tainted Wolf's Blood. In the center of the bloody rain stood the Master of the Blood, silver armor reflected red. He growled low.

Artorias tore forward before they could catch his back, smashing through the first of them with his shield. With the momentum of his swing, he twisted on one foot, sweep kicking several away as they raised their swords. As he stopped, he grabbed another with his hungry arm, kicking backward and using the Undead as a flail even as he drained it. Impatient and reckless, those at the back of the room surged forward, charging low or leaping high. Severed limbs filled the air and scattered across the ground, disrupting the attack without any effort from the Knight.

Yet a few broke through. Attacked from above and from below, he took a long, low stance and rammed forward. The leapers just missed him, and the first of the chargers broke against his shield. He snatched the one to his left as it rushed past, draining it and using its momentum to turn to the leapers, who now had their backs to him. The spinning greatshield broke their bodies, leaving only the charger which had attacked his right standing.

The Wolf Blood Master snarled and pounced upon the last of them with savage fury, crushing its body even as he drained it. He turned about, rumbling. The chamber was full of naught but blood and dismembered limbs, but the Knight recalled what the Prophet had said.

"So, what of it? Are you too frightened to facen me with your true might?"

The Bell of Awakening pealed again in distant Firelink, calling the Lords of Cinder to fulfill their duty to the Flame. The Lord of the Wolf's Blood could resist no longer. The greatest of the Legion, formerly drained of vigor by the Chaos artifact, staggered to his feet. The tainted Wolf's Blood throughout the room rose from the dead, the bodies draining to withered husks. It all pooled into the strongest vessel, even as the blacked cinders, tainted by Dark, caught fire once more.

The loose edges of the Watcher's worn armor caught light, especially the cape. The armor and warped stone dagger, which had compensated for the frailty of a human body, remained the same. Yet the replica sword which was the symbol of their obsession burned with the limitless power of the First Flame. Artorias, who had traversed the Abyss and beheld the Kiln of the First Flame alike, could see beyond the figure, to the countless echoes of the Undead Legion thrumming with power, barely contained within a single body. He remembered what the Prophet had said.

 _My name is Legion, for we are many._

At last, the Wolf Knight took a serious stance, shaped by will rather than instinct. He held his invincible shield in his false hand, an arm which would not fail him as mere flesh had. Solemnly, he reached to his back and unslung his unmatched greatsword. It shone holy silver, though the edges never seemed to sharpen in a straight line, and a winding stain meandered across its once-tainted face. Even so warped, it was a far loftier thing than the crude slab of steel which had been bolted together by mortal smiths in blind imitation.

Still, the monster crouched low to the ground, a feral beast of the earth wholly unlike the noble divine beast from which it had drawn its blood and power. It burst forward, trailing the fire of a dying sun. The flames licked up from the ground as it arced its sword, the explosive force enough to shatter stone. Yet behind his silver shield and silver arm, the godly knight feared neither steel nor flame.

"Thinkest thee thou knowest mine arte? Thou'rt gravely mistaken."

Though a Lord of Cinders was mighty indeed, it was also little more than a burnt-out husk of its former self. Though the Watcher was fast on the attack, its reaction speed was several seconds slow. The holy sword tore into its side, unleashing a torrent of blood and flame before the Undead thing leapt back. It took another sweep of its sword, unleashing a wave of fire across the ground. Artorias merely leaped aside of the slow, predictable attack.

The Watcher flipped forward, smashing its sword into the stone with a burst of flame. Its target was long gone.

"Thou makest such showen for thine own satisfaction. Thy kind and kin mistake mine former madness for purpose. Why jumpest thee when thou'rt not a-pounce? Thou'rt only exposed in midair."

The thing beat at his shield, hammering him back with the weight of the blade and the force of Flame. It finished its brutal flurry with a hammering frontflip.

"Fool!"

Artorias propped his shield up, catching the Watcher's feet. With a grunt, he flipped the Lord backward, then lunged forward like a wolf. He spun and struck with his sword, then kicked the falling Watcher back into the air. He pivoted on the one foot, then stomped with the other at the last moment. His shield smashed into the tumbling ragdoll like a brick wall.

With that distance between them, however, the Legion finally caught its feet. It charged forward again, flame crackling along its trail. The Wolf Knight replied in kind, only he dodged at the last moment. He juked to the side and spun around, running his sword through the Watcher's back. It howled in agony and wrenched itself off, leaping some distance away.

"The knight who standeth at vanguard muste never retreat, he who faceth the Abyss, moreso. He'st the first and greatest line of defense. His shield muste be strong, and his blade muste harm only that which he cannot saven."

The Watcher leapt into the air and stabbed downward, fire blazing forward. Artorias dove past the flames and knocked the blade aside with his own. As the Lord descended, he let his weight flow with his sword and thrust his shield forward with all the power his silver arm could bear. Vents snapped open, belching Chaos Flame as he crushed the Undead Legion's skull. The broken body collapsed against the shield, dissolving into souls.

"I am afraid thou'rt far beyond mine reach. Forgivest me, for not being strong enough… in lost Oolacile and here today."


	4. MLG EX Trunks

"Saint…"

Aldrich, Saint of the Deep, Lord of Cinder, stirred from slumber. He had lost much of his bloated body in the journey from his tomb in the Cathedral of the Deep to his new home, the Sunless Cathedral of of his boyhood legends. The austere beauty of the place was gone, buried beneath the sludge of his putrefying flesh and the skeletons of the countless men he had devoured. The diaphanous banners of the Nameless Moon glimmered in the cold light, shining silver above the oozing pitch and pitted statues. Nothing of the old gods of Flame were left in the Saint's wake.

The Silver Knights of myth had been devoured, their armor filled with Aldrich's living flesh and made to serve the Deep. His faithful Deacons kept the grounds of the old capital from intrusion. The Twilight King's own bishop had betrayed him and ruled over the lower city with iron fist and velvet glove as Pontiff. His abomination 'sister' was imprisoned in the White Tower. The last deity himself faced a far direr fate.

Aldrich, Devourer of Gods, rose from reclining. Only, his shape had long since given way to the formless ooze – in truth, his body lay across the whole of the chamber. What rose was all that was left of the Nameless Moon, Twilight King of Anor Londo. The body was emaciated, elongated, and mottled from Aldrich's digestive fluids. Yet it still held some value. With it, he could once again hold his golden ritual scepter and was no longer completely defenseless.

He turned its eyeless head toward the source of the sound. Preemptively, he ran one of his stolen hands along the head of his scepter. Sorcerous power stained with the Dark of humanity emitted faintly from its end, taking on the form of the countless human remains which comprised his body. Great-glaive comprised of soul energy in both hands, Aldrich slithered forth on a tail of human torsos.

Where was the intruder? He couldn't smell anything over the rot and cinders.

"First thou betrayest thy covenant, and now thou seest fit to despoil the keep of the Great Lord. Didst thou dream too deeply of the waters, Saint of the Deep? Didst thou forget thy duty to Flame, Lord of Cinder?"

The voice echoed through the chamber. It resounded with the strength of a god. It was meant to be there, no matter how befouled the chamber became. The glass of the windows shuddered in the cold.

"I am the Dark Sun, Gwyndolin! Let the atonement for thy felonies commenceth!"

The chamber warped and stretched like a falling dream. Aldrich had been lessened too much in his journey. His flesh oozed ever thinner, weakening as it tried to fill the whole of the grand hall. The Saint bristled with disbelief. If his puppet could shriek in fury, he would have had it do so. He commanded the body of the Nameless Moon as he devoured the deity's soul. The Twilight King's robes had blackened with sludge, and his crown was pitted, mottled, and tarnished.

What, then, hovered at the far end of the chamber? This King was younger and fairer, clad in all white and gold, with a grand crown which held his reflection as a mockery. Fingers splitting and oozing black blood as he forced them to articulate, Aldrich held his scepter aloft and nocked a sorcery like an arrow. He loosed the violet ray, and it splintered into a thousand arrows of conjured iron as real as a nightmare.

The Twilight King revealed a bow of his own, alike made from yew and gold. He drew just one arrow, a golden lattice. It loosed with silence and a flash, the burnt umber of sunlight crossing the invisible bolt over and over like the arrow at its heart. Like a ray of sun parting the rain, the single shot hurtled through the long hallway with enough force that it scattered the soul energy. It blasted the base of the monster's tail, causing the puppet to go limp.

Aldrich boiled in fury, trying to gather up enough of his own sludge to fill the wound. Not losing any time, the amorphous beast surged forward, dragging the long-haired body of the god through the ooze. The short-haired doppelganger didn't waste a beat either. Though he didn't fire another massive shot, brass arrows danced on his fingertips. With each draw of his bow, he loosed four arrows, and while Aldrich's liquid form was resilient, it was quickly becoming as much holy metal as human bone.

With a defiant charge, the Saint of the Deep reared up, drawing his puppet to alertness and driving through the deity with his glaive of bone and souls. The Moon smiled.

"Oh, how could I have fallen to such a brute?"

The illusion dissipated. He was but a mere step to the side, but in so being, was inside the weapon's range and out of danger.

"Returnest thou to ash, false heir to Sunlight."

The eclipsed arrow tore through Aldrich's main body, ignoring the distraction of the humanoid form. The ooze crackled and popped with black smoke as sun dried the human remains to white powder. The body of the Nameless Moon fell away as the Devourer of Gods abandoned his food to try and recover as much of his power as he could. The room caught fire, then contracted as Aldrich drew himself together. The dream of the Dark Sun's endless corridor shuddered and broke like the reflection disappearing from a muddied pool.

All of Aldrich's body which had been lost throughout the cathedral came in response to his dire call. There was a faint tolling of a Bell as the pitch came alight with the power of the First Flame itself. The hideous thing surged up into a human form the size of one of the great deities, rising over the balcony high above, then collapsed into a wave. Whichever Moon was the true King became irrelevant as both bodies were swept into its current and sank to a depth which no light could illuminate.

The cold glow of the crescent outside continued to stream through the windows, even as the black covered them. Just the same, Aldrich did not realize when its color began to shift uneasily. The deep blues of night shifted to the greens of the sea. The muck shifted as currents formed beneath its surface. With a hideous slopping noise, it peeled back from the statue of the Great Lord.

"Thou hast misjudged mineself, Saint of the Deep. The Dark Sun whom you consumed kneweth only of Flame and Dark. He accepted his heritage only for the subterfuge it might provideth. I know mineself. It wast the Darkmoon which beckoned the waters of the Deep. I am the Moon which commandeth the tide!

In the name of the Dark Sun, get thee from my cathedral! Performeth thy duty to the Flame, Lord of Cinder! Thine Age of Sea willeth not come to pass!"

Gwyndolin's snakes rose from the depths of Aldrich's body like serpents while his crown broke the surface like the sun rising over the waters in the distant east. In his hands, he held the Saint's golden scepter. He raised it high and ran his palm over the back of it, tracing a current which left behind motes which gleamed like stars. Whorls of the night sky reflected in the sea formed a blade of holy moonlight. He thrust the naginata forward with a geyser of lunar force that pushed the sea of tar back against the far side of the gallery.

The fog wall broke, and Aldrich spilled through the open doors, washing away the Deacons. Gwyndolin slithered down the stained carpet of his ruined keep, driving the Deep back. He gestured with a hand, and the grand entrance opened, letting the filth wash down the ancient stairs and into the open light of the moon.

"B-Brother?"

"Brother!"

"Lifehunter, he is still fighting! Do not allow the brine to touch you!"

Yorshka, Priscilla, and Maria had made their way through the false Silver Knights and Deacons to arrive just as Aldrich burst through the doors. Their instinctive dread of the creature of the Deep had lessened with his weakness, but perhaps that was part of the Deep's insidious nature. As the Saint reached the bottom of the stairs, Priscilla took a deep breath. A slow, steady stream of deadly crystals rimmed the last step, eating away at Aldrich's body before he could drip to the city below.

Seeing what she'd done, Gwyndolin commanded the nightmare fog to rise and bound the staircase, sparks of umber sunfire reinforcing it with a fraction of the Great Lord's barrier strength. From atop the stairs, he cocked the Saint's scepter back, taking an instinctive pose he never thought he would. The Moonlight Spear arced down, driving through the bile of Aldrich's body. The sludge churned about the stuck naginata for a moment, then dispersed into souls. All that was left was the Lord's ashes and split, bloated skull.

The fog dispersed as suddenly as it had been conjured, and Gwyndolin was left with the horrifying soul of the beast. It was a deep, Deep blue, but a flicker of gold glimmered from within. The deity twirled his fingers about the soul, whipping it about like water in a bowl. It thinned as it spun, until it had given way just enough that he could pull the soul of Flame out from its heart.

This soul was pathetic and withered, just like its body had been. It was possible that with healing magic, it could be restored to its body and that with years, it could one day recover. Yet this other Dark Sun would forever live in the shadow of his former self. Gwyndolin knew he could not bear it.

In accordance with the ancient rite, he crushed the soul, and two deities became one. Gwyndolin grew older and taller, his robes tearing as his youthful body lengthened into that of a slender adult. The silver hair about his ears fell to his shoulders and straightened. He took a deep breath as his mind adapted to the experience of two divergent timelines.

"Brother, it is you!"

"Yorshka, I must apologize for having left you Sulyvahn's prisoner for so long."

He spoke naturally to the halfbreed he had never met before. It had been weeks before he finally put to rest his instinctive aversion toward Priscilla, but between his absorbed memories and newfound maturity, it was a simple matter. He felt all the more grateful to his elder sister for her patience with his moodiness.

"I see Priscilla hath helped thee in thine escape. I trust thou art getting along with thy new sister?"

"Oh, yes, Brother! She is everything I could have dreamed of!"

"Splendid. Priscilla, I hope she has not been too much of a bother."

She shook her head fervently.

"Of course not!"

Gwyndolin stretched his long fingers toward the moon, trying to grow accustomed to his new body.

"Marquessa Maria, I have some catching up to do with my sisters. Aldrich's bonfire shouldst be intact. Couldst thou maketh contact with Izalith in my place? The Prophet will haveth need of this monster's ashes, if memory serveth."

"It shall be done."

Maria bowed elegantly, then took off up the stairs, vanishing intermittently. Gwyndolin meanwhile descended at a pace that would be considered leisurely if his sisters didn't already know his snakes simply couldn't undulate any faster without tying themselves in knots. At the bottom, one of the snakes retrieved Aldrich's scepter, which had fallen over without any power to sustain the moonlight blade. He had always seemed out of place among the ancient and deeply experienced (or at least stupidly powerful) Lords, but now, he truly seemed a fitting King of the gods.

Though Priscilla was somewhat disappointed that his sudden growth would mean an end to giving her slow-moving brother piggyback rides in order to move him quickly.

"Now, sisters, I'm sure you both have a great deal to ask me. Come, let us speak in private, in the sanctity of the Great Lord's tomb. I am sure that I have some emergency provisions hidden there, which we should retrieve before rejoining the others."


	5. Sequelitis

In his time, Oceiros had been said to possess the wisdom of the gods. He broke the power of the noble families, shattered the peasant rebellion, and united the kingdom of Lothric under one banner. Upon the three Pillars of his faithful Knights, his attending Priestess, and his eyes the Scholars, he built one final bulwark to uphold the Flame. He rebuilt ancient archives and his palace alongside them, and he bound all his territory with a wall to hold humanity safe.

So secure, he invited foreign wisemen and magi to his keep. There, they studied until the Flame faded, guided only by candlelight and desperation. They awaited for the Champion but feared the Flame betrayed, until at last, one of their own departed to Link the Fire. That bought them time, but precious little.

King Oceiros had been said to possess the wisdom of the gods, but so too did he hold holy blood. Perhaps that was the key to it all, to inherit the strength of those who had gone before. He wed a foreign maiden whose blood was yet purer. When it became clear that mere blood was not enough, he fell to performing terrible experiments upon his children, trying to dredge up what power might yet remain in god or man.

The low, watery umber sun beat upon the archives. In the dusky light, horrid things of gnarled root drifted on over-warm winds. They had once been men, but now they merely held a similar shape, stripped of meat and overfull with Dark. Ungraceful butterflies, they were, disgusting mockeries of the moonlit creatures the King had meant to create.

Yet, the experiments had not wholly failed. Three sturdy knights in gold stood guard atop the archives, beauteous wings of white growing from their backs. They watched impassively as an old Undead emerged from the winding passages below and approached the bridge to the palace. He must have slain the Black Hand, the Hunters who were the secret fourth Pillar and who guarded the path to the palace now that all other obstacles had failed.

They stiffened at first, but the Undead continued his path. He did not turn about in search of their precious captive. He sought the rebellious princes, then. King Oceiros had retreated to his garden in madness, and the twin princes brought civil war to the kingdom. Their blood was pure, but their souls were tainted, cursed.

Even now, their fanatical servants defended them, countless hollows lined up behind makeshift barricades. They couldn't so much as remember their names, but they remembered their duties. How cruel a fate, how wicked the princes!

So too did the last remnants of the Knights loyal to the High Priestess press past the barricades on the long bridge that spanned between the king's archives and the princes' palace. They stood no chance as they waited for the hardened defenders of the princes descend the stairs. Yet still the kingdom's defenders, they turned instead to the approaching intruder. Loyalist and rebel alike set aside their feud to deal with this barbarian clad in worn steel and fur.

The old Undead was strong. Too strong. He was too quick, no matter how many crossbows fired. His greatsword was too keen, no matter how the hollows charged. Neither barricade nor armor stopped his long blade as it swept through the gathered warriors with the force of a giant. Three elite, blessed knights guarded the long stairs at the end of the bridge, but they hardly had time to empower their blades before they were slain.

Along the bridge and up the stairs, there had been statues paying homage to the royal family and their Pillars. The statues of the Knights and the Priestess had been shattered, yet the statues of the Scholars had been melted by terrible heat. The philosopher-king Oceiros had countless such statues grace the front of the tower which held his throne, but the princes had seen fit to methodically destroy each once, their forms twisted like the subjects of the Scholars' experiments.

The weathered old Undead frowned with nostalgia, then forced the great iron doors open. He ascended the tattered red carpet and passed into the audience chamber. The stone floor was cracked and blasted from battle and age, worn and pale banners of the kingdom hanging overhead. A haze drifted through the room, illuminated by the large stained glass windows.

Peculiarly, countless white feathers were strewn across the torn carpet and pitted stone. Tremendous piles of them had formed at the foot of the royal balcony, which looked over the room from the height of several men. Atop that was placed an over-large bed, the cast-away sheets cascading nearly to the chamber's floor.

"Oh dear," a cultured youth's voice said with boredom and just a hint of spite. "Another dogged contender."

With difficulty, the feeble Crown Prince Lothric propped himself up on his elbows. His flesh was bleached and mottled, like a corpse left in the sun. Dark rings wrapped his sunken and bloodshot eyes, and much of his face was concealed in the hood of the black robe he wore. The only sign of his position was a golden laurel.

"Welcome, Unkindled one, _purloiner_ of cinders."

"I am a thief of many things, but cinders are one thing I have not yet stolen."

The prince leaned forward, straining his eyes.

"Ah, I am too accustomed to their tireless pursuit. What business have you with me, Champion? The Bell has already tolled for Unkindled Ash to retrieve we wayward Lords. Do you too seek to deliver me to my duty to forestall your own?"

"Ah," the old Undead said, setting his sword at rest, "they are called Champions, now. In my time, we dared to call them Monarchs. Only a True Monarch, it was said, could take the Throne. I stole many things to make myself the prop of a Monarch. Only, I failed.

To stand before the Flame and choose, to Link it or to let it fade, is the province of the True Monarch. I fled, for fear that it would be taken by one who would misuse it. Young Monarch, you have made your choice to turn from the Flame. No one could demand more of you."

Intelligence flickered in the prince's dead eyes.

"You speak of Monarchs? You have survived since the time of the old King of Want. How is it that you have retained your wits?"

"I suppose that is a fitting title. I am Vendrick, ruler of Drangleic. I have come to this age directly, through the machinations of the Prophet-King. I would speak with the Lords of Cinder, to elucidate the origins of their betrayal of Fire for those who would follow. If you would speak with an old fool, tell me – why is it that you seek to let the Flame fade and the Curse fade with it?"

A thin sneer streaked the prince's face, for that was all he could muster.

"Is that truly all you desire, King of Want? To tell our story to deaf Ash?"

"No. Not to Ash. To a King of Flame everlasting and to his children's children, who have never known fear of Fire."

Lothric dragged himself forward, to the edge of the bed. This was the old King of Want, a barbarian king in furs, with braided hair and a beard to rival the First Lord. There was no deceit in his stoic face, carved with years of worry like the stone giants he destroyed. So too, the might of his soul was such that he looked over the royal platform. Only the lofty bed elevated the prince above him. In the shadows, the elder prince, Lorian, shifted uneasily.

"No Flame is everlasting," the younger prince said, his voice just barely curling into a growl. "My father has sought after such without regard for the sacrifice."

"I did not come to speak of this Fire or your father, but of yourself. You have denied not merely the feverish wishes of the Consumed King but the hopes of your people and the duty of your lineage. Lothric, last of the line of Gwyn, why do you shun the Flame?"

Lothric's long nails tore into the bedding.

"I shun it because Flame becomes everything. My people are mere kindling, and my lineage, the greatest fuel. A king who serves the Flame is no more than a thrall. There is nothing that will not be cast into the Flame to keep it burning just a little longer."

Vendrick nodded sternly.

"The Lord of Sunlight had only the best of intentions, but what is done to fulfill them could not be said to be kind. Young Lord, you have been pressed from birth into the role of an ancestor to whom you owe nothing and everything. You were not given a choice, so you rebelled. What if you had been given that choice?"

"That changes nothing. Let this world warped and obsessed by Fire go dark. If my duty were passed to one more willing, I would oppose them the same."

"You are kind, young Lothric. It is surprisingly simple for one of faith to sacrifice their life to the Flame. So too, for one who desires power to seek the Dark at the expense of those who depend on Fire. You would turn away from Flame to save those who would be burned, yet you do not pursue the Dark. If only I were so admirable."

Vendrick turned to leave.

"Farewell, young Lothric. If others who are not Ash approach, tell them that I have spoken with you, and they should retreat."

The prince sat, baffled, as the old King of Want simply walked away without fighting.

"Wait, if you would. King Vendrick, what is this everlasting Flame of which you spoke? History does not speak of you as one who loved the gods."

Vendrick stopped and looked back, brows knitted in thought.

"No. I was never content to believe what I was told. I had to experience it firsthand. Yet in the end, those I trusted most were the staunch clerics I had once detested. As I had said, I failed and resolved myself to hollow in the tomb of my forebears. There, the Prophet-King found me.

Imagine a world where the first successor to the Lord of Sunlight did not Link the Fire to his own soul but to a seeker of Dark so full of humanity as to contain it. I had conceived of such a creature, which would inherit Fire and harness the Dark. It is, I believe, the goal of the nation called 'Londor.' The Prophet-King foresaw this and created something kin to it.

The Fire of that world may never die. His people have learned the secrets of the Darksign and become immortal without hollowing. They wear the shells the gods have given them without shame. He says that men are beasts who think they are not because they wear clothing. For this reason, he continues to wear his false shape, though he is no longer even a hollow but a thing of Chaos."

There was a faint moan, and the elder prince clumsily dragged himself from his hiding place. His armor was scorched black, and his sword oozed with Chaos infection. A warped crown in the shape of flames covered his eyes. He had the same bright skin as his brother, only it was not rotten, and he could have stood eye to eye with Vendrick if he hadn't been crippled.

"Oh dear," Lothric said flatly, "my brother seems to be interested in this Prophet-King. Could we trouble you to introduce us?"


	6. The measure of a lord

"Reclusive," he had been called. "Lonely." What else could he have been? He had lived in peace with dearest, away from the humans who yet loathed the legacy of the conqueror who built their city of cold stone. Yet they called for him anyway.

 _They_ called him. They invoked those ancient oaths sworn by his blood, and he could not deny them. He had fought for them, killed for them, shielded them from the enemies they'd had the hubris to challenge. They had imagined his ancestor's grim might to be their own and had paid the price, a price they demanded he recompense them through blood. They called him lord and protector, but they saw only the shadow of that ancient conqueror.

Then, he was alone. He sought death in battle, but found only victory and scars to make his appearance all the more fearsome. He could not fight his blood. He was a conqueror in spite of himself. They gave him his ancestor's ghastly throne, and he sat upon it, for what else could hold him?

Only that foreign knight, kind Siegward, thought of him as more than a creature of rage to be directed toward the Capital's enemies. From his ancestral horde, he the two blades which could be his undoing. One to trusted Siegward and one to those who claimed to trust him; surely, it would calm their hearts. Yet that could not be done. The Profaned Flame and the curse which had spawned it held their hearts.

Perhaps – it was suggested – that the horrid, Abyssal Flame could be done away with in the limitless fires of the First Flame. He could take it from them, for it burned only the flesh of men, and he was a giant. Such a mission would mean the sacrifice of his life, for nothing could resist the First Flame, not even a giant. He accepted this burden which was less than the burden of ruling a people who hated him. No test of the gods could stop him on his way to the Kiln.

His great soul was Linked to the Flame, rekindling it. Only, they had not abandoned the Profaned Flame. In their greed, they had sought to do away with the inhuman brute which claimed their accomplishments for his own and called himself Lord. They hid the smallest part of the Profaned Flame and then enshrined it in a grand vessel. They did not imagine it would betray them in reflection of their humanity, of what they had done.

A pillar of gold rose from the Kiln to the sun, restoring its stolen vitality as it had been so many times before. Yet the Flame was weakened from years of countless service, and the tainted Flame its new Cinder had brought rejuvenated it even moreso than his inhuman soul, without nary a murmur of Dark. So, at the height of its rebirth, it gazed upon the Profaned Capital, and it took what they had sworn to give to it. A pillar of sunfire engulfed the capitol tower like the tower which had once formed the heart of the Kiln.

It fed off the Profaned Flame in its dull vessel and off the humanity of every soul in the city touched by the Darksign of the gods. It destroyed the people, good and wicked alike.

And Yhorm felt it.

Called to enkindle the Flame once more, he turned his back on it. The Lord of Cinder returned to his Capital to find that accursed thing still burning in its bowl, tended by the monsters which had brought it about. He should have broken them for what they had wrought, yet they were all that was left of his people, and he was sworn to their protection alike. The blood binding him may have all boiled away, but his sense of duty was not something so easily discarded.

They clamored for the Dark, those masked creatures, the descendants of the oracle. Anything for his people. Of course, it helped that the First Flame had already betrayed him. The reclusive Lord would refuse the call, lest Flame betray him again. He would sit alone on his ancestor's wicked throne, amidst gold bought with blood, and he would wait for the Fire to die.

Or so he had thought.

It was never truly quiet. He could always hear the faint chanting of the masked creatures as they worshiped the Profaned Flame. From time to time, he would hear the rumble and clatter of the gargoyles and they hunted intruders in that sepulcher of a city. Now, for the first time since the long moment after the tolling of the Bell, he heard nothing.

The fog which marked the border of his isolation parted. That was it, then. A Champion of Ash had come to drag him back to the Kiln. His body was heavy in the throne. He nearly wished for it, but his pride wouldn't let him. His wrath returned, and he rose in spite of himself.

The Champion was a bold one, he admitted, full of human self-importance. The figure wore no armor; merely silvered robes whose glint he could see even past the piles of treasure spilling across the room. Machete in one hand, he approached slowly, stooping down to get a better look. Bare feet in spite of the cracked stone and polluted water. A bald head and complex tattoos; an ascetic of some sort, then. It hardly mattered. He would destroy whomever sought to return him to the treacherous Flame.

His eyes shone blood red from beneath his hood and crown. A single eye, cold as the frozen wasteland above, glared at him. The other eye was concealed by a patch bearing intricate embroidery and an ivory stud which somehow drew his gaze. He shook it off.

The Lord of the Profaned Capital took a great sweep with his machete, a slab of burnt iron as large as the pillars supporting the ceiling. The Champion, arrogant as all humans in spite of its asceticism, had not drawn the long, slender greatsword at its back. His first attack missed, though it hardly surprised him. He would have been disappointed for a Champion to suffer his opening attack. Yet this Ash did not scramble to avoid the scything blade.

The ascetic simply continued as it had, showing remarkable flexibility as it ducked under and continued through the murky water which had drained from above. He whipped the blade back, arm gnarling with muscle like an old tree against the enormous weight. He angled the stroke to interrupt the Champion's path, but it hardly seemed to notice. He saw now that was the purpose in forgoing armor – the Undead flipped over the horizontal stroke like skipping rope.

He lunged into the shallows to reach for the figure, which he only now noticed was far larger than a mere human. Yet it remained just out of his reach; its longer legs had given it greater speed than he had anticipated. Before it could get away, he gripped the notch at the end of his machete. Instead of great, sweeping motions, he would cut it down with quick slashes.

Roaring, he rushed forward, sawing back and forth until the blade caught against the edge of the pool. The Ash was yet still faster, but he could surely outmatch its stamina. Only, he saw now its goal. The Storm Ruler he had left to his chief minister had been left at the foot of his throne; there lay one of the weapons which could fell a giant with ease. The greatsword's handle was broken, and its blade was brittle with age, but it would suffice to kill the shadow of the warrior he had once been. This was why the Champion had never drawn its blade.

That blue eye looked at him again. No, it looked through him. Then it turned to the terrible weapon in its hands.

"So this is the so-called Storm Ruler."

Now that he heard the Champion speak, he was nearly certain it was a woman. Sometimes, it was hard to tell with humans.

"Intriguing that the design is so traditional, compared to the more typical extravagance of uniquely-enchanted weaponry. Ah, this is a shame, and Her Majesty will surely kill me for this. Very well, then."

The Champion turned the greatsword down and thrust abruptly. The old blade shattered, flecks of iron scattering across the piles of treasure.

"I do not fear you, Yhorm; nor am I here to compel your Linking of the Flame. I am here to study, that I might learn to seal Flames which run wild with abandon as your Profaned Flame."

Yhorm was stupefied. If this was a trick, it was a foolish one. The sheer absurdity had cooled his wrath, and now he was curious.

" **What do you mean?** " he rumbled with the voice of a creaking greatwood.

"If you will forgive the cliché, I come from a land fond of playing with fire. It is my duty to ensure that such power does not burn out of control, so I must ever seek to master more dangerous Flames. You once sought to put to rest the Profaned Flame. It is a thing of Sin; my Sin. It is a thing grown out of the Chaos I once loosed, Darkened still further by the Oracle's wayward children.

The frozen wastes above were once my home, beautiful Eleum Loyce. Only, time is convoluted at the end of the Age of Fire. In your history, the Chaos was halted but not contained. It remained there, to be poisoned as it was. My history was changed by a traveler from a third history. Now, I have come here at his bidding to change yours.

Your life has been plagued with tragedy and misfortune. Luck was quite literally against you, human as it is. Please, will you not join us?"

A snarl broke across the giant's face.

" **You seek only a tool. One who can hold the Profaned Flame without burning. I will not be used again. This tower, this obelisk, shall be my grave marker. Depart now, if you do not wish to be departed.** "

"Is there not anything I can say to change your mind? You could live in peace in old Anor Londo. The giant Knight of Gwyn, Hawkeye Gough yet lives there."

" **A giant in service to the gods of Flame is no giant I wish to meet. Begone. I will not warn you a third time.** "

Yhorm pushed past the human and collapsed in his hideous throne. The Champion remained for a few moments. The giant scrutinized her actions, but not once did she reach for her sword.

"I am disappointed," she said at last. "You had once given everything to your people, but now you wish only masturbate to their memory, locked in this dark, dank room. A pleasant eternity to you, Lord of the Profaned Capital."

With that, she simply turned and left. Yhorm watched her go. Things were still silent, and he was still alone in the throne room of his wasted city. The monsters outside whom he had hated but was sworn to protect were all dead now. Nothing at all bound him to this throne forged for a reviled ancestor. He could barely remember why he was there now.

As the silence droned on for minutes or hours, he wondered if any of what the Champion had said was true. If it was a trick, it was a foolish one. If not, then was it the rambling of a madwoman or a fantastic truth? He supposed it didn't matter.

Who truly cared if the Profaned Flame was born of Chaos? What did it matter if that strange human had created it? She possessed no power over it by her own admission. Even if she could remove it as he had wished, what good would it do now? Everyone was already dead.

It was only fitting that their lord should remain with them to the end. He shut his eyes and let himself drift. He needed only hold on a little longer. He had fulfilled his duties and kept his oaths. There was but one promise remaining.


	7. The demon formerly known as prince

"Oh my goodness, that is quite the fall!"

The young man looked around nervously. He had tried desperately to set the broken coiled sword aright, to no avail. Above him was a poisonous swamp and an ashen waste. It was a dead land filled with the hatred of the wasting creatures that lived in it. In that sense, it was not so different from how home had been for most of his lifetime. Still, he had no desire to cross it, and geography itself seemed to be leading him to the hollow archtree before him.

He thought he remembered something about clearly fatal falls being survivable if they were located in suitably dramatic locations. The remains of an archtree certainly qualified. Only, he also remembered that such falls were often the entrance to pitched combat with a terrible foe.

He was torn. He certainly didn't wish to fight if he could avoid it, yet neither did he want to force anyone else to fight on his behalf. Perhaps if he waited, they could fight together, like Knight Solaire was always fond of.

He fidgeted. He was pale and slight, with unnaturally long limbs, yet with the way he cringed, he seemed like he would be the one scared rather than do any scaring. White hair fell around his eyes in knotted curls, framing his delicate features. He wore only loose-fitting black robes and held no weapon. Really, he had only come with the others to provide moral support and to study how they fought. He wasn't yet ready in body or mind for the rigors of battle.

But he could certainly kill if driven to it.

Blood-colored skulls wafted up from a message written in soapstone. "Take the plunge. You won't die." A long trail of crimson fabric flapped in the wind, and the phantasmal image of a hooded man pointed downward.

He sighed and looked at the ruins of civilization all around him. Countless kingdoms were compacted into a single heap of ash and broken stone. Above burned a wicked sun in the image of the Darksign, bleeding hideous light down to the Kiln so far away. He sighed. At least the clouds were beautiful.

At last, he decided that no one would come for him – and even if someone did, it would be kinder to vanquish the impending monster before anyone arrived. Cautiously, he approached the edge of the fallen tower on which he stood. He sat down on the ledge and took a deep breath. He could do this. He was the-

Abruptly, the bricks gave under his weight, and he was falling into the bitter darkness below. He screamed loud enough to wake the dead, only stopping when he landed face-first in a pool of sludge. The rancid slurry was a mixture of rot, garbage, blood, and shit – all the things cast away from the kingdoms above. Bones of man and beast alike floated with the scum on its surface, slowly drifting across the murk now that he had disturbed its surface.

He flailed backward, spitting and coughing, his pale looks stained and his hair matted with filth. Here too there were ruins, bounded by the roots of the dead tree. He stumbled to his feet and took a look around, each step squelching as he moved through the sucking bog.

Then he heard it scream.

A flame shone through the dim light of the hollow as some hideous thing came to life. The monster leapt at him from a great distance away, a bat with tattered wings yet still capable of gliding. It was not merely the wings which were ruined, though. The creature's entire body was torn to shreds, left a mess of root-like sinew and jagged bone.

It screamed, for every waking moment was pain. Its body was shattered, and he could feel its very soul ebb with its last vestiges of life. It was a Chaos demon, one bearing the soul of the Witch herself. Yet the soul was withered as much as the body it inhabited, the boundless flame flickering for lack of fuel.

The young man shuddered in sympathy and nearly forgot to dodge. He fell face-first into the muck again, this time rolling through it. Soft, white petals of a sort drifted toward him, and he was forced to dive out of the way once more as a stream of toxins followed it. A twin demon hurtled through the air, coughing up its own rotted guts. This one burned with a lower, redder light than the first, and seemed sluggish in comparison.

He hardly had time to think as the first charged at him in a fury, swiping left and right with its stone-rending talons. From safety, the second demon unleashed a stream of toxins. The man only just barely avoided the opening attack by diving forward. He grabbed hold of the demon before him, unperturbed by its smoldering body.

"Fancy a hug? Please, can't we get along?"

The mad thing screamed and writhed, trying to wrench him free.

"Please, I know you are suffering! Let me heal you! I'm not very good at it – I'm not very good at anything, but my sister can surely help you!"

At last, the demon threw itself to the ground in desperation. Yet it didn't anticipate how quickly the man could climb or how fierce his long-trained grip strength. It howled from striking the earth and stone while its twin began to snort and made as if to spit poison at it. It hissed and let the deadly miasma wash over it, but the intruder in their lair was nowhere to be found. Abruptly, the other demon snarled.

"Oh, sorry about that. I'll give you some space."

The man had hidden beneath the cooler twin as it unleashed its poison. Now, it crouched and tore at the ground. Streams of light shone along its veins as it tried to kickstart its dim flame. The man took off running, and after a moment and a flash of light, both demons chased after him in a fury. It was a mad dash to the edge of the pit, and yet somehow, he outran the demons.

They slashed one, then the other, like pistons in a burning engine. Their burning claws slagged the stone walls and set fire to the dead roots of the archtree. Yet still, the man found handholds and footholds, sometimes using the damage caused by the demons' attacks.

"I'm sorry! I'm leaving! I swear, I'll bring my sister! Just let me fetch her!"

"Oh, and I thought I was the one in trouble."

The stronger demon howled as a vortex of bronze shattered bone and hewed flesh. A heavy knight with a greatshield on his back marched forward fearlessly, His old, worn halberd whirled over his head like the fallen windmills above, tearing into demon flesh with each turn of the blade.

"You've found yourself in quite the predicament, my friend! Well, fret not! Trusty Lapp is here!"

"Please, Knight Lapp! They are in pain! Do not harm them!"

"There's naught you can do about this sort, bruv! They've gone mad, just like all the rest of us hollows!"

The second demon retaliated. The knight quickly brought his shield to bear and retreated, letting the claws just glance off the reflective surface of the shimmering steel. After recovering from the assault, the second demon turned to take its vengeance. It would leap over the knight and attack him from his blind side. His sturdy helmet was latched in place, so he wouldn't be able to see to defend himself.

The climbing man sighed. As much as he hated to admit it, the knight was right. As much as he pitied the demons, as much as he felt their pain and loneliness, there was nothing left of them. They should be put down for their own good as much as for anyone else's. He took a deep breath and hefted himself on top of a root.

As the demon wound up for the jump, he backed against the wall. As it tore the ground with its talons, he charged forward with reckless abandon. It came up just below him as he tumbled through the air. He rolled his shoulder back, then lashed forward. From his left hand sprung a trail of magma in eye-watering colors. It spewed through the air like a strand of mucus, then looped around the demon's neck.

It choked in midair, then tumbled ungracefully to the sludge-covered floor, dredging up the deepest ooze. It screamed in agony for the last time as the man standing atop it pulled the thread tighter and tighter. No human so frail should have had such brute strength. Several seconds passed, and the demon went still, its flame fading.

The man released the stream of lava, which hardened immediately to black stone. The heavy knight was having no trouble confronting the weaker demon on his own. His sturdy shield was a nigh-impenetrable bulwark, and his halberd allowed him to counterattack without closing the distance. The pale, inhuman man had no need to help. Yet the knight did not seem to be the glory-seeking type, and the demon deserved a quick death if nothing else.

He charged in just after a slash clashed against the knight's shield.

"Call me Lapp!" the knight said. "I'm a hollow, so you'll have to forgive me for not knowing my birth name! Never thought I'd meet a friendly face out here! It takes guts to try and show mercy to demons! I respect that! I'd be proud to call you a friend, if you'd have me!"

The white-haired man noddled bashfully, then remembered he was in a fight to the death. He dove under a claw swipe, then rolled to his feet with a sweep of his arm. The whip of Chaos magma hooked up and around the demon's neck. He stomped forward and slammed the bat down into the murk, just in front of Lapp. The knight didn't need an invitation to ram his sturdy bronze blade right into the demon's exposed skull. It collapsed in a heap.

"Goodness, me!" the man said as he released his hold. "That was quite the rush. Please, forgive me. I am unused to combat. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Knight Lapp. I am-"

"Friend, get back! It's not over yet!"

The demon's body had caught fire, and the strength of its soul had begun to make the whole chasm tremble. The flames grew brighter and brighter as the demon forced itself to its feet. Its wounds had begun to heal with cancerous growths, unnatural vines growing in place of severed muscle and stone wood sealing shattered bone.

"It- it only had half of the soul! Each of them did! It's this powerful when those withered halves are combined? What was Mother thinking?"

It roared now with as much hatred as pain and unfurled its completed wings, unleashing a wave of Chaos fire.

"Knight Lapp!"

The knight misunderstood and tried to protect the frail, robe-wearing man with his greatshield. The man himself quickly forced the knight behind him as the wave rushed over. His black robes rustled in the stiff wind of the blast, but they were utterly unharmed, made as they were from demon spider silk.

"Bloody hell…" Lapp gasped.

"Knight Lapp, please retreat."

"Now, don't be thinking I got cold feet just because it's bigger now!"

"You misunderstand. Forgive me for the late introduction, but I am Quella of Izalith – only son of the Witch, and first demon prince. At least until my little nephew is born. Please, give me some room to reveal my own wretched form."

"Sure thing, bruv," the knight said without missing a beat.

He path the man-shaped demon on the shoulder and dashed away. With his newfound friend no longer in danger, the tiny demon let loose a shriek of agony. He pried a ring from his finger, of an orange-tinted mineral long ago charred black. He let his robes fall away and stared at the great bat just before him.

Quella hunched over and gagged as his body contorted into hideous shapes. His back hunched, and his beautiful hair fell out to reveal twisted horns and eyes where they did not belong. Countless writhing insect legs burst from his back. He focused his mind to a pinprick, feeling the power beyond the pain. He would never be anything less than a hideous monster, the first Chaos demon, but he could be more. He could control the Chaos and become whole.

The bat leapt away despite its new strength, for it was at its heart a cowardly and broken creature. It conjured a tremendous flame orb in one hand and hurled it at the mutating creature. Quella's flesh burned away to reveal a form made wholly of Chaos magma, blood of Flame oozing from a mighty heart. He focused his entire being and pushed beyond the pain.

Obsidian formed over the surface of his body, scabs of black glass healing over the sores from his tainted and premature birth. He retained both arms instead of one sloughing off, and the cavernous hole in his chest filled.

" _Please_ ," he said with the voice of ten-thousand gnawing insects, "f _orgive me._ "

He controlled his size, keeping even with the beast instead of growing to fill the whole of the cavern as he could have. The bat retreated further, learning to use its newfound might. It raised one hand, then the other, throwing streams of burning meteorites. The glass skin of the creature once called Ceaseless Discharge shattered and reformed as one of the stone clipped him.

He was not nearly so agile in this form, so he charged straight ahead. With his long, tendril-like arms, he lashed at the evasive bat, missing but burning away the bog as he struck. Islands formed in the ooze where he stepped. The cowardly thing wheeled in the air, trying to strike at him from behind, but the legs growing from his back raked it like countless knives.

Furious, it sought to break him, rising high in the air and slamming its burning fists into his body, but Quella took the hit, wrapping both long arms about it. As his flesh snapped and rent under the force of his own bear hug, the countless razor shards tore the other demon, letting loose its burning blood like rain.

Realizing it was helplessly caught, the bat threw its head back and shrieked. Seemingly endless flame spewed from its mouth, forming a roiling orb high above them. The fire was no issue to another demon, but the sheer mass of molten stone forming would be another matter. Quella squeezed the thing tighter and tighter, but that seemed to only squeeze yet more flame from the dying bat's lungs. He had to kill it quickly. Just a little more!

The orb flashed like a miniature sun. It was going to fall. He was too late to break the spell. Suddenly, the demon choked and went limp in his arms. The Chaos Fire in its heart went cold. Trusty Lapp jerked his halberd out of the demon's back.

"What are you looking at, bruv? Run!"


	8. OM NOM NOM

" _Midir_!"

Shira, daughter of the Duke, last priestess of the old gods of Anor Londo, thundered up the dizzying bridge as if possessed. Her crown was a jewel made from a thing which devoured men's souls, and her weapon was the broken body of a condemned immortal. She wore every bit of the fury and mad desperation of the gods as she charged the last living dragon.

It was a beautiful and tragic thing, first mortal child of the everlasting dragons, raised by the gods to devour the Dark which was their great fear. Yesterday's great enemy bound and brainwashed to fight the enemy of today. Only, no creature, no matter how mighty, could touch the Dark without it sinking into their soul and driving it mad. That was the reason for their great church and the pomp of religion – better to pass that duty to the already-mad children of the Abyss, sealed into more pleasant forms.

They knew this, Shira and Midir. They knew they were cast-aside experiments, failed weapons against the encroaching Dark. Yet, here they had remained in the Ringed City, the shackle-shaped home of petty Pygmy Lords who were seduced by mere glory. The children of dragons knew, yet they stayed, for in the Dark were far worse things than shackles. And now, Midir had become one such monster.

The dragon's double maw drew wide; his great head rose high. Flames tinged with Dark began to roll through his knife-sized teeth. There was nowhere for Shira to hide, yet she still had half the bridge to cross.

"Haah!"

A stone-tipped spear as thick as a man's torso exploded into the dragon's exposed neck. Scales dripping with Abyssal ooze exploded from the point, and Midir choked up only a short burst of flame. The great dragon collapsed to the bridge, nearly shaking it loose from its anchors.

"Now, Shira!"

In the burbling, insect-infested Abyssal swamp below, an enormous figure stood atop one of the half-sunken buildings. Hawkeye Gough, master of the Great Lord's archers, gave a hearty wave. The priestess charged without hesitation. Her cross spear was originally a dragonslaying weapon, after all, even if it had been tainted and entangled with the mad king. She wheeled the weapon around and slammed the blade-like spine of the malformed half-corpse into Midir's skull.

The dragon gurgled with blind pain, and his defiant grip slipped from the bridge's smooth stones. His tremendous body gave way and tumbled through the air and into a lightless chasm far below. Try as she might, Shira couldn't find any sign of Midir. Only, she knew a descendant of the ancient dragons could not be slain by so little.

"Knight Gough!" she screamed, her human-sized voice not able to carry across the great distance so easily. "Midir hath fallen below! I will pursue! Thank thee for coming this far!"

"There is very little I would not have missed for one last hunt!" the old giant bellowed, chuckling.

The priestess bowed and continued alone into the tower on the other side of the bridge. Though it would have been a boon to have another ancient dragonslayer with her, there was simply no way for a giant to walk those Pygmy-sized halls. Out of concern for her old friend's suffering, she hurried without pause to the secret shrine which led to that forbidden, Dark chasm.

Fearlessly, she threw herself into the void behind the altar. She had expected to land an impossible distance below, in the flooded caverns which had once held the Flame itself. Instead,she saw movement in the darkness. She drew lightning along her small chime and let loose a volley of arrows which penetrated straight through the dragon's stone scales. Midir started to charge out from under her, but she was just able to grab hold of his tail before he got away.

The priestess held on with all her strength as the tail whipped with enough force to break the bones of mere humans. A moment passed, and the force ceased. Midir hadn't been trying to throw her but merely was using his tail to balance as he turned about to face another foe. A squat old man with a braided beard stood before the dragon with a crooked smile. Where his eyes should have been, there were pinpricks of sickening blue light, like mad stars.

"I smell moonlight upon you," he hissed. "So the rest of it was with you all along. Give it to me. Right now, you imbecile."

As Midir swiped at the strange man, Shira used the dragon's bucking movements to swing herself up and onto his back. As he bent down to unleash a rolling wave of flame, she slid between his four tattered wings. At the base of his neck, she kicked herself to a stop on one of the smaller spines, still the size of a human skull. One after another, she unleashed lightning arrows directly into the back of his head. She didn't have the more powerful magics of the knights who had fought on the front lines, but any lightning would be more effective than her Dark-tainted weapon.

Midir roared and shook his neck before charging again. Quickly, Shira flipped her spear and stomped on the crossbar, digging it into his crumbling scales. The half-aware king wrapped about the weapon stirred, gripping at the Abyssal ichors that leaked from the dragon's body. The priestess hazarded a moment's glance at her prisoner, then turned back to the current task. She leaned on the firmly-entrenched titanite pole and kept shooting.

Poor Midir couldn't afford to shake her loose while the bearded man occupied his attention from the front. In spite of his hardened appearance, the ruddy-skinned, blunt-nosed fellow was a master sorcerer, a grand constellation of crystal masses floating about him. Every time the dragon tried to shake the priestess loose, the sorcerer would drive a spinning vortex of crystal shards through him. Every time the dragon tried to crush the sorcerer underfoot, the priestess would stud his skull with lightning.

Eventually, the furious dragon slumped. He took a deep breath, shadows falling from his wings. The ambient Dark of the Abyssal chasm drew around him. Shira hated to lose her position and fight such a mighty creature on foot, but she wouldn't risk whatever sort of power Midir was conjuring. She stomped her spear free, then leapt to the ground. She tumbled and took off running, just as a shrieking wave of shadows erupted with the dragon's roar.

Wisps of the white light of humanity drifted lazily from Midir's insect-eaten wings as he beat the ground and surged into the air. He made a great arc and landed at the far side of the cavern. Shira and the sorcerer chased after him, no time for greeting, but the dragon only hissed at them. His mouth shone a blinding white, which exploded into brilliance like striking a match in utter darkness.

The Darkeater rose on his hind legs and roared wildly, arcing his neck and swinging his head to and fro while a beam of purging white vaporized stone and water alike. Explosions of blackflame trailed behind the ray, rocking the cavern and causing stones to fall from its roof. Shira threw herself to one side, the shallow water cushioning her fall. The sorcerer's stout legs were too slow, and a sudden turn of Midir's neck found him blasted through the air.

He landed with a splash and a limp roll. Most of his beard was gone. Most of what was below the beard was gone too, wiped away entirely. It was as if he were ink blotted out with correction fluid; the general shape of his body remained, but it was smeared and transparent.

"My… moonlight… I must have it… The illusion…"

Shira watched as he dispersed into souls. She had some estus, which could certainly restore any wound through the power of Flame, but suffering such an attack head-on would likely be the end of her. Midir had paused for a moment to catch his breath. The priestess raised her lightning arrow.

She had been a fool. There was no way she could defeat Midir – the first generation of mortal dragon – with a mere bow. She scowled and lowered her talisman. As much as she hated to waste the sorcerer's sacrifice, perhaps Homeward was the spell for now – to regroup with Knight Gough and plan another means of fighting Midir's still-immense power.

Something bubbled and clanked as it touched the stone beneath the water. The sorcerer had dropped something – had he died permanently? Humming the beginning of Homeward under her breath, she dragged her soaking gown through the water to see what had fallen.

It was a dagger of holy brass, only the hilt and crossguard were absurdly oversized. It was somehow familiar. She picked it up to take with her in spite of herself.

" _Aaaaah, Shira, my dear. How long has it beeeeeeen? How many ages?_ "

"Father?"

Her stomach dropped. More than facing her dear friend Midir in mortal combat, she dreaded that voice, like the buzzing of insects inside her own mind.

" _Iiiii'm sorry you had to see that. McDuuuuuff and I had a tactical disagreement, which left hiiiiiiiim distracted. Come, take a walk with this old paledrake._ "

The weapon blazed to life with stolen moonlight, a shimmering blue-green blade forming a greatsword around the brass dagger. Midir howled, and sympathetic humanity rose around him. Dozens of the black sprites hurtled at Shira like falling stars, coveting her precious warmth. She started to release her spell, but abruptly, her tongue went silent. Her legs began to move on their own.

Nausea set in as her senses expanded, and she could smell the souls all around her. Without looking, she could sense the lukewarm droplets of humanity as they flew toward her. She twisted gracefully past one, bowed under another, and sprung over another.

" _Yeeeeeees. A more graceful body suits me. As expected of the flesh oooof my flesh._ "

"Father, you cannot simply-"

" _Theeeeere is nothing I cannot do, my girl. For that is the beauty of Flame._ "

Shira tried to cast away the sword, but the blade merely dispersed as she slipped it into her belt. She charged forward with abandon as Midir drew himself back. Fire glimmered about his double lips as he stoked his internal flame and unleashed his more usual breath weapon. A steady stream of Dark-tinged fire washed before her, but she juked the attack and kept running. As she drew in closer, she found her spear in hand once more. Though she did not have the strength of a knight, she cocked it to throw.

"Father, no! My duty is to-"

" _Your duty iiiiiis to the Flame. Not to this decaying cage. Let us be rid of thiiiiiiis parasite._ "

With a great heave, the priestess cast the dragonslaying cross spear and its deformed captive into the gaping maw of the Darkeater. Midir choked, coughing flame like a sickly demon. He pounded the ground, calling up more and more humanity sprites which longed for his pain. Then they saw in Shira a more appealing target. It seemed that there was nowhere for her to escape.

" _Iiiii will need you help for this, my girl. I can move your body, buuuut I cannot use my own strength. There is too little of me preeeeesent._ "

"Father, I have no talent for your sorceries!"

" _Use your faith, Shira. The line betwixt is fine and so easily transgressed. Such is the aaaaaaart of the lastborn of Gwyn. And after all, the moonlight waaaas once holy and may be so again._ "

The priestess took the greatsword in both hands, and the blade sprang to life again. With a roar, she swung the infinitely light blade, and unleashed a wave of moonlight which washed away the humanity like the tide. She swung again and again, cleaving through the falling Dark with occult light.

As she stepped through the shimmering remains of the sprites, Midir stomped the ground and roared. He charged with all his strength, but Shira quickstepped to the side, extending the blade. The dragon's unstoppable mass would have sent a physical blade spinning away, but the cold moonlight shore through his crumbling scales without so much as flickering.

Tarlike ichor spurted from the cut as Midir took a hard dive, his great snout driving through the stone like soft earth. Shira's feet drove her forward, but she swore and drew her bow instead of swinging the sword.

" _Sooooo be it, child. I am hardly choosy so long as my objectives aaaare fulfilled. Do not forget my blade if you are pressured._ "

Fearful as much as furious now, Midir forced himself to his feet. Lightning pelted his rear, so he swiped with his tail. His enormous body whipped around far faster than it had any right to. One enormous talon fell, then the other. Terrible gashes were struck out of the stone as the feral dragon lunged forward. Still, he continued, snapping with teeth that could grind boulders to dust.

Shira danced away like the ebb and flow of the tide. She had regained control over her body, yet still, her father's invisible claws guided her, giving her greater strength and speed. She loosed a flurry of lightning directly into the dragon's face, and he roared with fire and fury. Spewing flame, he rushed forward again, then lunged yet still further and dragged himself ever onward with his claws. He could close a quarter of the cavern floor in one furious drive, but moonlight graced the priestess' feet, guiding her and granting her the agility of those who would inherit the Hunt from the dragonslayers of old.

Again and again, Midir raged across the cavern floor, his tattered wings more fit for tremendous leaps than outright flight. Sometimes Shira would dash to the side and sometimes she would rush beneath his lunges, but he simply couldn't catch her. His rolling flames were too slow, and drawing up the terrible ray of Dark from within him only gave her time to find shelter under his own wings. Even whilst distracted by humanity sprites, she was simply too quick.

The great dragon roared with enough fury to shake the cavern as shadows fell from his wings like snow. One last time, he took a deep breath to inhale the Abyssal air. The Dark shimmered as it swirled about him in a poisonous vortex, like a cauldron about to boil over.

"Midir, mine oldest, dearest friend," Shira said sadly. "Please, performest thee one final task for the gods. Devourest one last wicked soul. Protectest the princess from a great evil, even in this final hour."

She rung her chime, sacred to the sleeping princess, and drew her lightning bow.

" _Iiiii suppose this makes the genocide of my own people complete. It is aaaaalways a shame to utterly destroy something, yet it is not aaaaas if we could keep him for study._ "

In the priestess' other hand, the brass guard shone with moonlight. She drew it along the bow, the holy metal conducting the lightning easily.

" _My hoooow unpleasant. I had forgotten this sensation. What do you hope to accomplish-? YOU FOOOOOOOOL GIRL!_ "

Her body began to lock up again, but she only used the stiffness to focus her aim.

" _This will not destroy me! It will only lead to consequences you would dread to imagine!_ "

"I do not need to imagine, Father. I have borne witness to what wicked acts you commit upon stolen maidens. As I am the fury of the gods, I will erase the Lord's sin in letting you roam free!"

She only had to let her fingers slip. That was enough. With all the faith in her body, she strained free of the White Dragon's control, and the Moonlight Greatsword which held his essence lanced away on a streak of lightning.

A tremendous wave of Abyssal force poured out around Midir, but the lightning and moonlight cleft through as nothing. The blade of two lights hurtled into the dragon's roaring maw, driving all the way into his throat without resistance. The last of the dragons screamed.

Midir collapsed to the cavern floor. He didn't twitch or spasm like a lesser thing. He didn't cry out or struggle like a man grasping for life. The dragon simply fell and died, with all the quiet dignity of his stony people. All that was left of him was a soul of terrible blackness, a horrible mass of all the writhing Dark he had consumed – and a crest of young grass, the seal of the princess. He had kept it safe, even after losing himself. Yet when the priestess took it in hand, she knew something had gone horribly wrong.

She heard the Judicator cry out. The King's decree had been broken. The cathedral had been trespassed. And by the time she had cast her spell and returned to the surface, the Ringed City had been reduced to ash.


	9. GG

There was the all-too-familiar crunch of ash sifting underfoot. Silver armor and black robes; funerary garb now worn as a reminder. The ash settled uncomfortably between his exposed toes. A constant dry wind blew it into his eyes and nose. If his hair were not already thoroughly white, it would certainly be now.

Still he walked over the ashen dunes, making his way toward the iron scent of blood and the sickening-sweet taste of Dark. A few outcroppings of stone dotted the wasteland, the final remnants of the towers which had once stood in this place. In the distance, the last bastions of civilization huddled together, hidden behind walls which could never keep out the End of Fire. Yet over all this still stood the sign of the gods' shackles, repeated atop each ruin.

At last, the old warrior came upon the great Ringed Court, where the Pygmy Lords played at their game of royalty. It too was destroyed, yet this open yard had been undone by violence. Their too-tall thrones were cracked and shattered, and their broken bodies lay in pools of dusty, near-black blood. The smell was almost enough to make a man sick.

Past the ring of thrones was another dune, and over this dune, the warrior found the ultimate source of the stench. One of the old gods' slave knights was hunched over, leaning heavily on a chipped and worn greatsword. His garb was faded and tattered, long turned as colorless as the ash. Only the signifying red hood retained any vibrancy, a long and torn cape trailing from its back. The old knight looked up suddenly, gray beard covered in flecks of dried blood around the mouth.

"What, you came back?" he hissed, a distant hatred mixing with disbelief.

He rose clumsily, as if drunk. Beneath him had been a Pygmy Lord, impaled on the shattered sword, as if its withered body could have fled to begin with. This one, too, was surrounded by blood long dried.

The two old dragonslayers looked at one another for a long moment. They were both worn and weary and had long lost their luster. In one hand was a greatsword; the other was free, for before the advent of organized religion, who needed a token to express faith in gods so brilliant?

"I have no business with you," the slave said at last. "But you won't let me go with it, will you? The Dark Soul. I have need of it. For my lady's painting."

"What contemptible weakness," the warrior said with a rumble in the back of this throat. "You all waited so long for that wretched Age of Dark, yet now that you see its squalor, you wish to hide in a world of your own delusion. I should allow thee rejoice in that cage of thine own devising."

The slave pounded his fist in the ash.

"It is a place for we forlorn!"

"Too afraid to pay the price for Fire, yet too afraid to lose yourself in the mindless Dark!"

The slave snarled and jerked his gnarled, warped body. In one smooth motion, he drew his sword from the ash and threw the half-dead Pygmy Lord as a blind. He followed in its shadow, leaping from the trough toward the crest of the dune. He thrust with the splintered end of his sword, but the old warrior could not be fooled.

The veteran set his feet apart and batted the corpse away with his free hand while sliding into a ready stance. He pressed into the thrust, bringing his own sword along his waist as he ratcheted his elbow into the slave's chest. The human staggered backward, winded, and the warrior lurched forward, snatching the slave by his collar. Despite the human having become glutted on souls and outmatching him in size, he lifted the lesser thing into the air with ease.

"This would never have happened had my Blades remained true to their purpose. I would have never imagined Ciaran was so fragile. I would have never imagined that the fire in all their hearts would go cold."

His palm exploded, and the slave knight was blasted through a stone wall, collapsing the ruin on top of him.

"Thy name wast Gael, I believe the Witch-King said. One of Flann's, then. Little wonder thou'st survived. It does not surprise me the fool braggart failed to keep track of his own slaves. Rise. That was not enough to kill a roach like thee. All you insects, scurrying in the dark and feeding on whatever you please, no matter who it belongs to. No matter if it is another of your kind."

Gael burst free of the rubble at once, snarling and dashing sidelong at his foe. He juked and then again, trailing a bloody aura of phantasmal skulls. At last, he dove low to the ground and tried to slash the god's legs out from under him. The old warrior hopped forward, driving his knee into Gael's face. He stomped and took a swipe with his sword, but Gael's frenetic retreat was too quick to catch.

"This is the so-called power of the Dark Soul of Man. Thou forgettest thyself – tactics, allies, anything but the bestial bloodlust. Thine flesh is warped and hideous for no purpose but a brute's might. Didst thou not swear to serve nobly as a knight?"

Gael pressed again from the god's exposed side, whirling with furious strength. The old warrior turned and grabbed his own blade, pressing into the attack and driving the wild force into the ground. A low kick followed, forcing Gael back again. This time, the slave attacked immediately, still keeping low to the ground but flipping for a hammering blow even a heavy knight would be hard-pressed to deflect.

The warrior kept his spacing flawless, sliding around the attack and making a low sweep that would have decapitated a slower foe. The slave knight retreated, then stomped forward, thrusting to cut off pursuit. Again, he retreated, but when the god tried to follow, he roared and slashed as quickly as he could manage. The god dodged, and Gael swung again from the opposite side. His foe slid inside the attack again, trying for another grapple.

But Gael would not be stopped. He rampaged forward, bucking like a wild animal, and threw the god overhead. Before the warrior could recover, Gael lunged into the air and drove his sword earthward. Only, thunder pealed, and a shockwave of force blasted the attack back. The god simply rose to take his stance once more.

"Thou art a disgrace to thy peers who died in honorable service. Thinkest not destroying thy sanity with the Dark maketh thee a martyr. The painting is no less illusion than those cast by Fire."

Gael circled the god, easily cornering on all fours. His low swipe was met with a jump, but now he flipped, catching his foe helpless in midair. The old warrior ducked into the blow, catching it on his pauldron. The tremendous force drove him into the ash, feet sinking below the surface. Gael used the impact of his own attack to lurch into the air again, spiking his blade downward.

The rooted god flexed his legs and waited for the attack, grabbing the end of his own blade. He caught the broken sword on the flat of his own, shunting the attack forward and embedding the end between his own feet. His sword was cast back with the force of the strike, but he rolled his hips and shoulder, forcing it back with the momentum. The simple greatsword ran through the slave knight's chest.

Gael tried to stagger away, and the god obliged, kicking him back as he tore his blade free. The slave gasped and moaned, falling to his knees before the god. Red-black blood dripped from his chest and from his nose and mouth while the iron-smelling fluid flooded his lungs. It was the only color upon the burnt and blasted landscape.

"Ah… Is this the blood? The blood of the Dark Soul?"

The slave knight drove his sword into the ash and leaned upon it, pulling himself up with force of will. As he rose, crimson fog rolled over him, human skulls faintly materializing within. The sky darkened, and lightning cracked. Only, it was not the golden, unnatural lightning of the old gods of Anor Londo. It was was the blue-white lightning of the nature the gods had shackled. Gael's old, tattered cloak split, hanging at his sides like bloody wings as skulls poured out of the red fog like rain.

"Do you hear them, Lord? The cries of anguish. They clamor for your end."

"It will be thine end, even if thou best myself," the god said grimly. "Identity is limned by Flame. Thou wilt become one with the howling Dark, another voice in its faceless chorus."

Gael took a great, slow slash with his splintered sword. It would have posed no danger, only that his cloak and its fog trailed the blade, drawing a bleeding cut across the air. The god leapt away rather than risk closing on it.

"This is mine own penance, that I was not there to face the first beast with my Knights. Dark Lord, I will face thee with what power I yet retain. I swear upon this spent crown."

The god turned his sword to the ground and set it in the ash before him, hands clasped upon the pommel. His eyes burned a terrible gold. Thunder pealed all the louder as the black clouds broke, and the washed-out sunlight of the dead world fell upon him. His sword flickered to life as thrumming sunlight formed around it.

Gael made an overhand thrust, the sword far from its target but the fog churning and drilling forward. The Lord of Sunlight took one step forward, drawing his sword from the ash of his Fire-swept world. With a stroke, he dispersed the fog, the power of Flame burning up the Dark blood.

"Come," Gwyn rumbled. "Dye the Sun red with thy blood."

Gael burst forward like a scarlet meteor, trailing blood and skulls as they dripped from his wings. A vortex of the gnawing fog chased his blade, but Gwyn's sword of lightning and fire flashed to meet the falling star. Rising from the earth like the dawn breaking, the Great Lord's greatsword easily matched the descending pressure. Gael snapped backward and darted to and fro like a firefly. With no other defense, Gwyn swept his sword left and right, halting the hungry Dark at every turn.

The slave knight strafed along the ground, bringing to bear a mechanized crossbow. The Lord of Sunlight thrust his hand forward, deflecting the iron bolts with a golden fog. Gael slid on the ash but then turned suddenly, driving himself the opposite direction with his wings. He lunged at Gwyn, but when he met the god's defense, he corkscrewed into the air, unleashing a spray of bolts which peppered Gwyn from above.

He landed in a crouching position and let out a low rumble. Seeing the trick, Gwyn thought to match force with force and raised his hand to the sky. With a wingbeat, Gael exploded with Dark and blood, casting out dozens of black skulls which burned with crimson flame. They rained toward the god with vengeance in their souls, but a bolt struck out from Gwyn's hand. A ring of Fire rose around him and expanded with a terrible hunger. It was if the skulls passed over the face of the Sun and were consumed.

Blue-white lightning shattered the solar disc, falling all around the pair. Gwyn again beckoned the sky, and golden bolts joined them, forming a deadly dance. Gael flitted between the flashes of light while Gwyn remained where he stood. Each time nature itself dared strike at the king of the gods, he used his sparking sword as a lightning rod. He cast an orb of light from his free hand, which lazily drifted toward Gael.

As the human flew past it, it erupted into countless lightning arrows firing in every direction while bolts yet rained from above. Yet not even an impassible grid of lightning would stop the faithful slave. White-limned characters formed in the air as he summoned himself from another timeline, appearing and disappearing one after another as parallel Gaels traded places to avoid the lightning in their own worlds. At last, a single Gael stopped to unleash a barrage of coronets. Where a simple slave knight might cast a single disc the size of his fist, the fatally faithful Gael had the resolution to cast six, each the size of a giant's torso.

"Such conviction…"

Gwyn drove his sword into the ash and raised a golden fog wall. The whirling discs struck it and rebounded, but Gael simply changed places with another. He wound like a top, driving splintered sword and bleeding wings into the Lord's back before he could change his defense. He beat his wings and howled with the hatred of all the humans who had been sacrificed for Fire. Black skulls and bloody flames drowned the Lord of Sunlight in his legacy of ritualistic immolation.

Light shone from within the screaming vortex. Gwyn rose from the flames, flesh torn and gnawed away. He had left his faithful sword in the ash, but what need had the king of the gods for mortal weapons? His fist rained down, and the clouds parted. The last heat of the dead sun descended with a crack that collapsed all the ruins in the wasteland.

"My lady…"

The clouds began to drift away from the epicenter of Gwyn's attack.

"Thine faith wast misplaced. It is the duty of a Lord to beeth the first sacrifice. So perished the Witch of Izalith; so perished the Lord of Sunlight."

Gael's head rested gently on the dunes. Though he still gripped it firmly, his sword was melted to slag. Even then, it would have done him no good – most of his body had been reduced to a bloody paste in a crater that reeked of holy incense and ozone.

"My lady is gentle… and kind… she would never abandon us, as you did. She would never condemn…"

The slave was fading fast. With so little of his body left, he could think more clearly, the Dark Soul splattered on the ash.

"I will bear the weight of thy resentment. If naught else, I will grant thee the last rites of a knight. Thy sword shall be returned, only – tell me, what is thy lady's name?"


	10. Let it go

The Painted World was burning, but Sister Friede did not know why.

 _When ashes are two, a flame alighteth._

Had she not warned away every ash which entered this world? Had not the weak found their place among the gentle rot? Had not the brave fallen into despair as her corvian knights slaughtered them like pigs? Had she not personally seen to the demise of every cinder who risked sparking Flame anew?

Why, then, did the Fire roil in its vessel? Father Ariandel, ever faithful, bled himself dry trying to staunch the embers. This time, they had become a fierce Flame, fiercer than even in her nightmares. The old burn tingled with pain all along the right side of her face. Even the Flame of the outside world had not been this strong since ages past. How could the bestowed Flame of the Painted World grow so large from mere ash, unfit even to be kindling?

Something hollow resounded as it struck the first step leading beneath the altar, to the secret chamber where she and Ariandel had hidden the Flame's vessel. Whatever fool slave of the gods may have survived the perils of the cold Painted World, she would break them and use their own blood to quash what they had created.

One clacking step, then slowly another and another. The sounds came in threes, as if the intruder limped and walked with a cane. Strangely enough, an elderly man with the snow-white skin and hair of the old gods descended to the frosted cobblestone.

"Friede," Ariandel wheezed.

His hand shook as he tried to raise his flail, studded with black iron barbs in the shape of crows' talons. The old giant's life had nearly bled dry.

"Friede, my flail. I can't quite…"

"Hush, good Father," she said softly, looking out from the deep folds of her wimple. "It is only a relic of a time long gone. I shall soon bury it with the rest."

She turned away from the Flame and straightened her posture. There was a majesty to her stance not normally associated with the repressed clergy. In her hand hung a long scythe, the blade made all the sharper for the damp carelessness of its storage, which had frozen dew to a razor across its edge. Her feet were bare on the frosted stones, but the chill meant little to long-cold ash.

"Elfriede, dear girl," the stranger called, "I have come to offer redemption."

In a flash, the nun had crossed the room. Her scythe ought have cleft through the old man's neck. He was not dressed for combat – no armor, nor the elaborate robes of a magician. He wore an aged and yellowed tunic beneath a heavy black toga, and he leaned on an old cane of lacquered bone – certainly no sorcerer's rod. Yet the old man's head remained firmly attached.

"I cannot truthfully say that I empathize," the man continued as if nothing had happened. "I do not feel these things in the same way, you see. It is simply a matter of biology – or lack thereof. Yet if I may be so bold, I believe that I do understand your grief."

Friede whipped her scythe back and hurled the old man to the stone. His bum left leg crumpled easily, but the distant, sad look in his eyes didn't change.

"You were fooled by the old serpent himself, more ancient and cunning than all but the birds. Yet he need not try hard. You bore witness to the excesses and obsessions of Fire firsthand. That is the legacy of our failure. For that, I am sorry."

Friede took a step sideways, arcing her scythe overhead as she moved. The blade tore through the man's middle like a war-pick, but there was no effect. It passed through the cloth without tearing. Even lunar illusions could be struck, and her blade had certainly pierced the man's garment. Why was the stranger unharmed?

"You were prepared, in every sense of the word, to usurp the Throne of the world and take the Fire itself. You failed. Even here, as you wait in fearful silence amongst rot and suffering, you are not hollow. There was never enough Dark in your heart. You are too full of life and light… just like _her_."

For a moment, Friede's lip twinged. Just a bit longer, and a snarl would have formed. Yet before it could be noticed, she forced it beneath a mask of icy indifference.

"What do you know, slave of the Lord's legacy? Do you intend to drag me back to Lothric? Already, you burn this world like you do the one outside, time and again."

"You are mistaken, my child. I am not here about the Fire's linking or about old Gwyn. I am here for you and for this world of rot you hold dear. Your command of the cold far exceeds that of an unkindled or even a student of the Painted World's magic. You have taken the cold for your own because it is dear to you. You wish to simply freeze everything.

No more pain. No more hard work for nothing. Everything just stops… while the cold slowly rots the body. The opposite, precisely, of your ancestor's bountiful healing."

"You know nothing, Champion of the old gods."

Friede turned her scythe about and hooked it beneath the man's chin. The powerful body of a swordswoman was concealed beneath her billowing robes. She tore upward, ripping the man's head off, but there was no blood. The head seemed to hang in the air for a moment as the deception broke, and the man's skin and hair vanished.

"No, my dear," the skull said. "When it comes to rot and cold, I know truly everything."

A hollow rattling like a roaring river echoed from the chamber above. A tide of worn, decrepit bones flooded the room. The light streaming from the high windows was snuffed out altogether, driving the hall into pitch blackness. The bones fell upon each other and oozed viscous shadow.

As the old man's severed head tumbled through the air, a bony hand whose fingers were lesser men's arms caught it. The fleshless skull was set atop a shambling mound of countless corpses bound in the white-limned Dark of humanity.

"I am Gravelord Nito, First of the Dead. A pleasure to formally make your acquaintance, my dear Elfriede."

It was a skeleton of a Great Man, Royalty, which rose more than twice the nun's height. It wore the bones of lesser Men like armor and the Dark souls of the dead like a cloak. Its voice emitted from no throat of mere flesh – it was a deep, heady darkness composed of every culture which had gone extinct.

"I understand your former order has its roots in the Fenito who adapted my teachings. I regret they were so easily perverted by the Darkstalker. My works were meant to provide succor to the Dead in the quiet Dark, away from Gwyn's Light. They were to be a respite from the burning ambition of the living. The Darkstalker made it yet another path to Want."

The abomination's neck was ringed with the skulls of Men like a monk's rosary. Its right hand grew into an unwieldy razor made of spines and ribs.

"Come to me, my wayward child. Abandon this hollow, rotting corpse and know rest. Your birthright does not matter. All are equal in death and sleep."

The Great Dead One spread his arms wide, and the chapel died. The wooden screens signifying the Sable Church; the oil paintings depicting her sisters; the serpent-headed lights which represented her former master – all crumbled to dust. Friede looked back. Fortunately, Father Ariandel was still unharmed. The Painting could be restored.

Friede vanished into the darkness and tensed to cut through layer upon layer of bone. The skeletons _screamed_. Before Friede could strike, ribs burst through the floor, glowing red like coals of a dying fire. One drove through her chest. She tore herself free and stumbled away, but the eyeless skulls just followed her.

"Please, if you must fight, do so with your own strength. Have respect for those whose images you have syncretized."

The monster let its hideous blade go limp.

"No, forgive me, that is but a platitude. I am not so ethical. Rather, have pity on an old, lonely man. Do not make me fight you while you pose as my adorable bride."

Friede attempted another charge, flashing like a thunderbolt, but the layers of bones were simply too many to cleave.

"Do you not see, my child? You hated that, being identified with _her_. _Her_ identity subsuming your own. Having no worth but to be a substitute! And then living only as a vessel to thicken spoilt blood!

The Flame scarred more than your face! Your heart was burnt by it. You sought to become your own person, but you knew not what to do. So you merely tried to live up to the perfect image expected of you, of the eldest sister. You became a mere image of _yourself_ , and when that image ultimately proved hollow, it destroyed your confidence that you could ever be an individual.

Now you wallow here, pretending to a half-dozen other failed vessels for the Flame. Show me not another Vestal Maiden. Who are you, Elfriede?"

The nun lunged into the air where the burning swords couldn't reach her. She twisted, trying to attack the central skull with pure torque, but the main spine was petrified and would not be cut so easily. The monster's left hand glowed with Flame and reached for her. Friede kicked off a ribcage and hurtled back, but she immediately whipped back. The Great Dead One hadn't been trying to catch her.

Friede let go of her scythe before the abomination could swing its blade-arm. Yet it didn't intend to do so. She realized letting go of her weapon was a mistake.

"A scythe is said to represent a long-lost home. Where is your home, I wonder? Hm? Is a scythe not also the symbol of a bountiful harvest? Even here, you remain in _her_ shadow, watching over a silly bowl as if the presence or absence of Flame means everything. Live life such that you do not regret death."

The steel and wood died of the scythe. Rust and dust drifted to the floor like snow. A single human skeleton broke away from the Great Dead One and hurried to present Friede with something. Her muscles tensed, and the callouses on her hands tingled. A pair of swords just like the ancient blades she had abandoned, newly forged and resting in polished scabbards of black ashwood.

"Who are you, Elfriede? Are you the Mother of the Forlorn, the Scholar's muse? Are you the goddess of fertility and bounty? Are you the leader of the Sable Church's mentors?"

Friede's hands quivered. For the first time, it felt as if the cold would overwhelm her. Not the cold of the Painted World. A cold, icy, and yet burning, hatred.

"So the Great Dead One knows all and would preach of the cold, dead truth?"

The nun took the paired blades in hand. She set the two scabbards in her belt, hanging on opposite sides.

"Men are never truly free. Master Kaathe gave us the least of all freedoms, to choose the shape of our shackles. Would we be bound by the glories of the past or the vision of a desolate future? We chose despair over illusion."

Humanity began to seep from the nun's eyes like tears.

"Our misery is eternal, and so we will never die. I fled from that. I abandoned my sisters to that fate. Yet I did not die as ordained. I choose neither misery nor death! As long as Ariandel lives, the Painting is eternal!"

The Flame in Ariandel's bowl writhed with her outcry.

"Friede!" the father cried mournfully.

"Hush, good father. It will be over soon."

Faster than the eye could track, Friede's arms crossed. A black luster streaked through the air. The Great Dead One's cloak of humanity was burned away by black flames. Fume-blackened steel carved through ancient bone. The Great Dead One's bladed arm collapsed to the floor.

There was a moment of silence. Several bony arms peeled away from the main amalgamation. They clapped.

"Splendid! Quite impressive! To _choose_ is itself the right of a True Monarch. Your tomb will be my finest work yet!"

The Great Dead One raised its remaining arm and revealed the depth of a Great One's power. The walls and ceiling crumbled away to reveal that the rest of the Painted World was already dead and cold ash.

The cold, burning mass in Friede's heart roiled with the sensation of utter loss. Her faithful knights were dead. Selfless Vilheim was dead. The gentle rot was dead. The forsaken residents of the Painted World were dead.

Father Ariandel was only the Painting's restorer. He could not create a world from blood and souls. He lacked the creative spark. _Her_ creative spark.

Friede gave a single warbling cry of grief and exploded into black flames.

"Friede?" Ariandel called in shock. "Friede, the Painting… Our home…"

The father barked like a furious crow and strained at his bindings. In a furious fit, he tore the bolts from the stone. Still strapped to his wooden throne, he rose and took up the censer full of Flame before him.

The seemingly endless pile of bones constructed a new arm for the Great Dead One. The tremendous corvian father and titan of bone charged at one another like glaciers. The Great One caught the bowl, and the giants sloshed the Flame between them as each tried to outmatch the other in raw strength alone.

Blackflame flickered from the shadows and struck at the Great One from behind. There was a flash of silence instead of noise, and the blacksteel was turned aside.

The main skull had turned back to face Friede now that she had reappeared. A single human-sized skeleton was beginning to pull itself free from the amalgamation. Unlike the swordbearer, this one was shrouded in humanity. Like the Great One, it had a bum leg and rested on a cane made from a giant's femur. Yet it stood with an air of dignity. In its hand was a black hilt wrapped with a torn, black cloth.

"It is my turn to be cruel," the skeleton said, clattering its teeth with the voice of the Great Dead One itself. "You know my old sword, do you not?"

Friede responded with a crossing slash that would have been impossible to parry with a single weapon, least of all with a blade that didn't exist. Yet the Dead One deflected one with the absent blade and the other with its cane. The master swordswoman curved the momentum of her deflected strikes to a synchronized and delayed pair of slashes into the creature's guard.

Yet the Great Dead One did not possess that masterwork blade for its artistry. It deflected both strikes with the same downward shift back into a neutral guard. Even as the Old Lord stood back-to-back with itself, it held off both the Father and Sister without giving ground.

As Friede retreated to plan her next move, she realized the monster's true objective as her foot nearly slipped off a newly-created ledge – she was running out of time. The Flame was still spreading through the last remnants of the Painting, and the Miasma of Death spread from it as heavy smoke. If she didn't slay the monster swiftly, there would not even be room to continue fighting.

Yet she knew the weakness of that relic blade, which her sister Yuria had inherited. As it did not perfectly exist in the world of the living, its phantom blade could be banished. Quickly, faster, faster, ever-faster, she attacked. Her swordsmanship ranged from elaborate to brutal as she tried to keep the Great One on its guard. With each strike the invisible blade deflected, the sturdy ancient blackiron hammered its connection to the Painting.

With one final, tremendous stroke of blackflame, the Dead One's blade shattered like a dream. Before the monster could respond, Friede thrust both blades forward. They ran between its ribs, pinning it to the bad leg of the main body. With a roar, she poured out all her roiling emotions as blackflame, immolating most of the bone goliath. Ariandel matched her fury and crushed the bones into a pile even as the flames of humanity scorched his inhuman hands.

It gave up a rush of souls, but above all else, a fragment of Flame. The Death Soul. The sister stared in disbelief. Certainly, this had been the Great Dead One. Yet the Great Ones were long gone, and the Great Souls had degraded to paltry, unrecognizable things.

The Painted World was still decaying around them. There was no time to consider another way. Friede reached toward it gingerly, still somewhat afraid after her last experience with the First Flame. Yet as the Dead One had said, Death was gentle and equanimous.

Already, she had spent all of her emotions in the final attack. In the afterglow, she felt something resembling peace at last; not merely the storm she had forced to freeze before. The quietness of Death called to her. It was a gentle strength, perhaps the one she had always wanted.

She breathed in Death.

With a wave of her hand, the Lord of Grave Ash froze the destruction of the Painted World. Then, with a downstroke, she destroyed it at once. Abruptly, the few survivors were ejected into the real world, in an elaborate drawing room. Snow glimmered in the moonlight before kissing the windows.

"Friede!" Ariandel cried.

"Peace, good father, it was already lost to us. Yet in its death, we have gained a new home. The lands of the Dead are given us."

A wicked scythe of bones assembled in her hands.

"Let us return this gift to the old gods."


End file.
